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RJhymes  from  a 
Round-up  Camp 

By 

Wallace  David  Coburn 

Illustrated  by 
Charles   M.   Russell 

New  Edition,  Revised  and  Enlarged 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New    York    and    London 
fniicfcerbocfcer  press 
1903 


COPYRIGHT,  1899 

BY 

WALLACE   D.   COBURN 


COPYRIGHT,  1903 

BY 

WALLACE   D.   COBURN 
Published,  October,  1903 


IKnicfcerbocfcer  press,  IRew  J2orft 


TO 
MY  COWBOY  FRIENDS 

THE  BRAVEST,  BEST  HEARTED,  AND  MOST  GENEROUS 
COMRADES  THAT  I  HAVE  EVER  KNOWN 


219137 


PREFACE 

MANY  and  varied  volumes  have  been  written 
concerning  Western  life  by  authors  who  have 
depended  for  their  facts  entirely  upon  a  flying  trip 
through  the  West,  or  a  summer's  sojourn  in  a  Western 
city.  •  It  has  been  my  aim  in  this  little  book  of  verse 
to  tell  of  cowboy  life  as  it  actually  was,  twenty  years 
ago,  and  as  it  may  still  be  found  to  a  limited  degree  in 
some  parts  of  the  West  along  the  line  between  Texas 
and  Northern  Montana. 

My  characters  are  taken  from  real  life  as  I  have 
myself  seen  it  during  many  years  spent  on  the  range, 
in  town,  and  in  camp  with  the  wildest  of  wild  cow- 
punchers.  Some  of  these  old  companions  are  now 
successful  and  highly  esteemed  business  men;  others 
are  still  following  their  vocation  on  the  now  diminish 
ing  cattle-ranges;  and  others,  too  many,  are  gone  for 
ever  from  the  ranges  which  they  loved  so  well. 

I  wish  to  acknowledge  my  indebtedness  to  my  old 
friend  and  fellow  range-rider,  Charles  M.  Russell,  the 
well-known  cowboy  artist,  for  his  drawings  which 
illustrate  so  faithfully  and  vividly  the  life  which  we 
knew  together. 

W.  D.  C. 

MALTA,  MONTANA, 

July  i,  1903. 


Contents 


PAGE 

WILD    WEST I 

THE    COWBOY        ....  4 

ODE    TO    THE    OLD-TIMERS    .....  5 

THE    STAMPEDE                 .....  6 

SPRING-TIME 13 

COWBOY    FUN        .......  l6 

TO  AN  INDIAN  SKULL         .....  23 

GRUB  PILE 26 

BILL  AND  PARSON  SIM       .....  27 

AT  THE  ANIMAL  CONVENTION    ....  36 

THE  OLD  COWBOY'S  TALE  37 

A  FATHER'S  ADVICE  TO  HIS  SON        .                  .  43 

THE  WOLF  HUNT        ......  44 

HUMAN  DISCONTENT           .....  48 

HIDDEN  TREASURE  MINE    ...  -5° 

SUNRISE   IN  THE   BAD  LANDS  53 

THE  COWBOY'S  FATE 55 

JACK    AND    BILL                ....                           .  6l 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  OBSEQUIES  OF  JACK   .        .         .  *>     66 

THE  COWBOY'S  GRAVE        .         .  .68 

A  TALE  OF  LOVE                                  .  74 

BROOKSIDE  RANCH     .  76 

THE  INDIANS'  TALE  OF  CHRIST           .  .       79 

THE  LITTLE  CROSS      ...  .86 

THE  COWBOY'S  REPLY         .  .       91 

THE  COWBOY'S  REGRET      .  -93 

THE  MONTANAS  AT  CALOOCAN    .  .       95 

NATURE'S  GRAND  OPERA    .  »       9^ 

EVENING  IN  THE   BAD  LANDS     .  •      IOO 

ON  THE  OLD  RIVERSIDE     .  •     I°2 

YELLOWSTONE    PETE'S    ONLY    DAUGHTER        .  .        103 

THE  COWBOY'S  SONG  •     IIZ 

THE    SERENADE                .  •       II4 

MY    BOYHOOD    DAYS      .  •        JI^ 

THE    GRAVE                                                      •             •  •        I22 

PHILOSOPHY            .                                                       •  •        I24 
OLD   JACK'S    INTRODUCTION    TO    WILD   HORSE             .        126 

THE  HALF-BREED'S  TALE    ...  .     i32 


Illustrations 


PAGE 

"DAME  PROGRESS  PROUDLY  STANDS"  .  .  2 
".  .  .  I  SPURRED  HIS  REEKING  FLANKS,  AND 

PULLED  HIS  HEAD  UP  HIGH"  ...  9 

"NOW,  HERDER,  BALANCE  ALL"  2O 

"O  GHASTLY  RELIC  OF  DEPARTED  LIFE"  .  .  24 

"HE  TURNED  HIS  BACK  ON  SIM"  ...  31 

"HIS  FIERCE  JAWS  SNAP,  HIS  EYEBALLS  GLARE"  45 

WE  FOUND  HIS  LIFELESS  BODY"  .  59 

"THEN  POOR  BILL  FELL  BACK  UNCONSCIOUS"  .  63 

"HERE  LIES  POOR  JACK;  HIS  RACE  is  RUN"  .  72 

"HIS  LAST  HORSE  FELL  FROM  UNDER  HIM"  .  83 
"THEY  FOUGHT  TO  THE  DEATH  WITH  THEIR 

BOWIES"  .  .  .  .  .  108 

"OUT  ON  THE  PRAIRIE'S  ROLLING  PLAIN"  .  112 
"l  PULLS  MY  GUNS  AN'  CUTS  DOWN  ON  THEM 

THERE  TIN-HORNS"  .  .  129 
"so  ME  RUN  UP  BEHIN',  SHOVE  DE  GUN  IN  HIS 

BACK" 133 


ix 


Rhymes  from  a  IVound-up  Camp 


Wild  West 

WEST!     Sweet  ruler  of  the  past, 
Whom  I  shall  ne'er  forget; 
To  you  whose  power  once  was  vast, 

These  lines  I  write,  and  yet — 
E'en  as  I  write  I  fain  would  look 

Upon  your  charms  once  more — 
As  when  in  bygone  times  I  took 

Advantage  of  the  smiles  you  wore ; 
But  you  are  gone  and  naught  remains 

Of  your  sweet  presence  here 
Except  your  subjects  of  the  plains, 

Whose  love  for  you  was  dear. 
And  even  they  are  few  and  gray, 

And  with  the  passing  years, 
Like  all  things  human,  fade  away, 

Adown  the  vale  of  tears. 
Yes !  you  are  gone  and  in  your  stead 

Dame  Progress  proudly  stands, 


flw 


WILD   WEST 

With  stolen  crown  upon  her  head 
And  blood-stains  on  her  hands. 

But  though  from  sight  of  loving  eye 
You've  sadly  passed  away; 

My  love  for  you  shall  never  die 

Till  in  the  ground  my  form  they  lay. 


The  Cowboy 

OVER  the  prairie  the  cowboy  rides, 
As  a  modern  knight  he  stands  alone 
Always  ready  with  heart  and  hand, 
A  typical  prince  of  the  Western  zone. 

No  other  land  can  claim  his  like, 

He's  a  native  American,  born  and  bred, 

A  product  of  God's  noblest  land, 
The  land  for  which  his  fathers  bled. 


Ode  to  the  Old-Timers 

O  LOWLY,  yet  steadily,  one  by  one, 

The  Old-Timers  go  to  their  last  long  sleep, 
And  in  each  Montana  has  lost  a  son 

Whose  precious  soul  she  fain  would  keep. 
But  they  all  pass  over  the  great  divide, 
To  seek  new  fields  on  the  other  side. 

But  few  remain  of  those  heroes  bold, 

Who  came  "out  West"  in  the  early  days, 
And  opened  the  mines  of  yellow  gold 

Where  the  elk  and  buffalo  used  to  graze. 
Ah!  few  of  that  gallant  crew  remain 
Who  years  ago  came  across  the  plain. 

How  many  people  in  this  great  State 

Think  of  the  hardships  these  men  endured, 
How  many  really  appreciate 

The  wealth  that  they  for  our  State  secured? 
Alas!  there  are  few  of  those  aged  hearts 
We  may  yet  make  glad  ere  the  soul  departs. 


The  Stampede 

DID  you  ever  hear  the  story  of  how  one  stormy 
night, 

A  wild  beef  herd  stampeded,  down  yonder  to  the 
right? 

No  ?  Well,  you  see  that  sloping  hill,  beyond  the  sage 
brush  flat, 

East  of  the  old  round-up  corral,  where  all  the  boys 
are  at? 

'T  was  one  night  in  November,  and  I  was  on  first 
guard; 

A  storm  was  brewing  in  the  west,  the  wind  was  blow 
ing  hard. 

Of  wild  Montana  steers  we  had  about  a  thousand  head, 

Belonging  to  the  "Circle  C,"  and  each  one  full  of 
"Ned." 

The  season  had  been  rainy  and  the  grass  was  thick 
and  long, 

So  the  herd  had  found  good  grazing  in  the  hills  the 
whole  day  long. 


THE   STAMPEDE  7 

The  clouds  had  piled  up  in  the  west,  a  strangely 

grotesque  mass, 
And  the  rain  began  to  patter  on  the  weeds  and  buffalo 

grass. 
The  lightning  flared  up  in  the  clouds,  and  all  was 

deathly  still, 

Except  the  melancholy  howl  of  a  coyote  on  the  hill. 
The  vivid,  shifting  lightning  kept  bright  the  stormy 

scene, 
And  I  could  see  the  broken  hills,  with  wash-outs  in 

between. 
And  when  Bill,  who  was  standing  first  guard  with  me 

that  night, 
Came  jogging  past,  he  'lowed  that  it  was  certainly  a 

sight, 
And  then  commenced  to  whistle,  while  I  began  to 

sing; 
The  lightning  flared  along  the  sky  like  demons  on  the 

wing. 
But  round  and  round  rode  Bill  and  me,  with  slickers 

buttoned  tight, 

And  looking  like  dim  spectres  in  the  constant  chang 
ing  light. 


8  THE   STAMPEDE 

The  thunder  now  began  to  peal  and  crash  along  the 

sky, 
The  cattle  pawed  and  moved  about,  the  wind  went 

whistling  by. 
Then,  suddenly,  without  a  sign,  there  came  an  awful 

crash, 
And  my  eyes  were  almost  blinded  by  a  bright  and 

burning  flash 
That  filled  the  air  an  instant,  then  as  suddenly  went 

out, 
While  little  sparks  of  lightning  seemed  floating  all 

about. 
And  then  the  scene  that  followed  defies  my  tongue  to 

tell, 
For  those  wild  steers  stampeded  when  the  deadly 

lightning  fell. 
I  don't  know  how  it  happened,  but  when  my  vision 

clears, 

I  find  that  I  am  riding  in  the  midst  of  running  steers. 
And,  oh!  the  thoughts  that  filled  my  brain  as  in  that 

living  tide 
Of  hoofs  and  horns  and  glowing  eyes,  I  made  that 

fearful  ride. 


fcp 
15 


10  THE   STAMPEDE 

On,  on,  and  on  at  deadly  speed,  I  dared  not  slacken 
pace; 

A  stone  wall  could  not  hinder  us  in  that  blood 
curdling  race. 

And  if  a  cowboy  ever  prayed  with  fervor  in  his  prayer, 

'T  was  me  among  those  madden'd  beasts,  I  prayed 
in  my  despair. 

My  horse  was  jammed  and  thrown  about  as  o'er  the 
rocky  ground 

We  sped  like  some  vast  torrent,  with  stubborn,  sullen 
sound. 

But  when  my  horse  was  almost  gone,  and  Death 
stalked  all  about, 

I  heard  above  the  awful  roar  a  cowboy's  ringing 
shout. 

And,  looking  backward  in  the  gloom,  I  caught  a  fleet 
ing  glance 

Of  cowboys  flitting  to  and  fro,  like  spirits  in  a  dance. 

And  then  I  felt  my  nerve  come  back,  like  some  old, 
long-lost  friend, 

For  I  had  given  up  all  hope,  and  waited  for  the  end. 

At  first  I  could  n't  understand  just  what  they  hoped 
to  do, 


THE   STAMPEDE  II 

But  soon  I  saw  they  meant  to  cut  that  running  herd 

in  two. 
For  after  cutting  off  a  bunch,  they  lined  up  with  a 

cheer, 
To  form  a  wedge  of  solid  men  and  charge  them  from 

the  rear. 
Then  on  they  came  through  tossing  horns,  with  old 

Jack  in  the  lead ; 
The   cattle   parted   stubbornly,   but   did  n't   slacken 

speed. 
On   and   on,    with   sturdy   force,    those   brave   lads 

struggled  on, 
But  I  doubted  if  they'd  reach  me  before  my  horse 

was  gone. 
For,  as  I  spurred  his  reeking  flanks,  and  pulled  his 

head  up  high, 

He  slowly  sank  beneath  me,  and  I  felt  that  I  must  die. 
But  up  again  he  struggled,  then  down  he  went  once 

more, 
And  I  found  myself  a-knockin'  at  old  Death's  gloomy 

door. 
And  when  I  got  my  senses  the  hoofs  and  horns  were 

gone, 


12 


THE   STAMPEDE 


And   Bill  was  kneeling  at  my  side  with   streaming 

slicker  on. 
You  see,  my  leg  was  broken  and  my  chest  was  badly 

crushed, 
By  half  a  dozen  reckless  steers,   as  over  me  they 

rushed. 
But  it's  hard  to  kill  a  cowboy;   they're  pretty  tough, 

you  know, 
Else  I  'd  been  riding  in  the  clouds  with  angels  long  ago. 


Spring-Time 

T  LONG  to  greet  the  spring-time, 
*     With  its  wealth  of  power  to  charm, 
And  sunny  smiles  that  take  the  chill 
Of  winter  from  the  farm. 

When  the  snow  is  off  the  meadow 
And  the  grass  begins  to  come, 

The  farmers  all  look  happy, 

And  the  bees  commence  to  hum. 

'T  is  then  that  all  the  little  birds 

Begin  to  bill  and  coo 
And  try  to  build  up  happy  homes, 

Just  as  we  humans  do. 

When  every  morn  at  sunrise, 

A-sitting  on  a  pole, 
The  yellow-breast,  in  rippling  notes, 

Pours  forth  his  very  soul. 
13 


1 4  SPRING-  TIME 

The  catbird,  bathing  at  the  spring, 
Calls  loudly  to  his  mate, 

A  jaunty  robin  redbreast  hops 
Along  the  barn-yard  gate. 

'T  is  then  that  man's  proud  nature 
Thrills  with  a  softer  glow, 

That  makes  his  heart  beat  faster 
And  his  blood  more  swiftly  flow. 

I  long  to  see  the  wild  flowers 
That  in  the  spring-time  bloom ; 

To  watch  them  blossom  in  the  sun, 
And  breathe  their  sweet  perfume. 

To  saunter  in  the  moonlight, 
When  everything  is  still 

Except  the  plaintive  calling 
Of  some  lone  whippoorwill. 

'T  is  then  that  love's  strange  powers 
Conquer  the  boldest  hearts, 

And  many  a  war  is  waged  and  won 
By  Cupid  and  his  darts. 


SPRING-  TIME 

When  the  air  is  filled  with  music, 
And  the  woods  are  full  of  cheer; 

Ah!  we  can't  deny  that  spring-time 
Is  the  best  time  of  the  year. 


T 


Cowboy  Fun 

U  M  "  \/ES,  stranger,  them  was  red-hot  times, 

1       And  things  they  was  n't  slow 

In  this  here  little,  one-hoss  town, 
Some  twenty  years  ago. 

"Cow-punchers  they  was  in  their  prime, 

..  And  genteel  in  their  ways, 

^  And  did  n't  ride  the  grub  line,  like 

You  see  'em  do  now-davs. 


"The  ranges  they  was  big  an'  wide, 
Where  roamed  the  long-horned  steer, 

The  wild  horse  and  the  buffalo; 
Likewise  the  elk  and  deer. 

"  'Nd  sheep — that  robber  of  the  range 
Why,  on  these  Western  hills, 

If  any  one  had  seen  a  sheep, 

'T  would  have  been  a  case  of  chills. 

16 


COWBOY  FUN 

"Water  it  was  plenty,  and 

The  lakes  was  overflowed; 
The  grass  it  waved  like  billows, 

When  the  western  breezes  blowed. 

"The  cowboy,  he  wore  notches  on 

His  ivory-handled  gun, 
To  show  the  number  of  the  scraps 

That  he  had  fought  and  won. 

"There  was  Cussin'  Sam,  the  captain, 

And  Oklahoma  Dick, 
And  City  Jim,  the  same  as  had 

The  fight  on  Beaver  Crick. 

"Bill  Riley  he  was  in  his  prime, 
With  Parson  Sim,  his  chum; 

And  Tin-Horn  Pete  was  twistin'  bronks, 
And  was  n't  on  the  bum. 

"Buck  Berry,  he  was  then  alive, 

And  used  to  come  to  town 
To  circulate  his  money  and 

To  throw  good  licker  down. 


1 8  COWBOY  FUN 

"And  Slippery  Jake,  the  gambler, 

A  ornery  galoot, 
Was  dealin'  faro  'cross  the  way, 

With  skinnin'  games  to  boot. 

"Sich  as  loaded  dice  and  montey, 
With  marked  cards,  on  the  sly; 

But  one  day  he  played  solitaire 
Between  the  earth  and  sky. 

"Old  Dirty  Dave,  the  round-up  cook, 

He,  too,  was  workin'  then; 
With  Club-foot  Yank,  'nd  Greaser  Bill, 

And  old  Panhandle  Ben. 

"While  Cotton-Eye,  the  night-hawk, 

Was  then  a  top  cow-hand, 
As  reckless  as  they  make  'em, 

And,  you  bet,  he  had  the  sand. 

"The  women-folks,  them  days,  was  brave, 

And  never  seemed  to  care 
To  flirt  and  enter  politics, 

Or  rip  around  and  tear. 


COWBOY  FUN 

"  But  come  and  have  another  drink, 

My  throat  is  gettin'  dry, 
A-talkin'  of  them  good  old  times — 

Them  happy  days  gone  by. 

"Gi'  me  some  red-eye— that 's  the  stuff 
Jar  loose  an'  let  her  run; 

There 's  nothing  like  old  forty-rod 
To  open  up  the  fun. 

"Now,  boys,  let's  have  a  stag  dance, 

And  celebrate,  you  know; 
The  kag  is  full  of  whisky, 

And  our  pockets  full  of  dough. 

"Come,  stranger,  don't  be  bashful, 

This  party  ain't  select; 
Though  you  're  a  simple  tenderfoot, 

The  boys  they  won't  object. 

"Say,  boys,  let's  find  a  shepherd — 
A  herder— that 's  the  cheese, 

Like  that  old  whisky  soaker 

With  his  dog  between  his  knees. 


fit 

Kl 


COWBOY  FUN  21 

"Come,  Shep — you,  over  yonder, 

A-talkin'  to  your  dog; 
This  ain't  no  lunatic  asylum; 

Come,  let 's  have  a  clog. 

"Oh!  you  don't  know  how  it's  done,  hey? 

You're  modest,  that  is  all; 
Come,  boys,  let's  start  the  music; 

Now,  herder,  balance  all. 

"Start,  now;  you're  up  against  it; 

Close  up  your  blattin'  face; 
That's  good;  now  slide  out  for  the  hills, 

Your  dog  has  quit  the  chase. 

"Go!     Pull  your  freight  and  vanish! 

Get  out  and  split  the  breeze ; 
Shake  off  the  wool  that 's  in  your  clothes — 

A  little  faster,  please. 

"  Now,  gentlemen,  the  air  is  cleared 

Of  that  flea-bitten  bum, 
Put  up  your  guns  and  wet  your  throats 

With  Casey's  fightin'  rum. 


22  COWBOY  FUN 

" Here's  to  the  happy  days  of  old, 
When  wages  they  was  high ; 

Come,  drink,  you  won't  get  licker 
In  the  sweet  bye  and  bye." 


To  an  Indian  Skull 

/~^v   ghastly  relic  of  departed  life, 
— ^     Whose  savage  spirit  once  therein  did  dwell, 
Couldst  thou  but  voice  thy  crimson  past, 
What  direful  tales  thy  tongue  could  tell ! 

As  on  the  reeking  trail  of  war, 

Thy  bloody  thirst  was  quenched  in  thee 

When  round  the  torture  stake,  with  burning  brand, 
Thy  cruel  spirit  laughed  in  fiendish  glee. 

And  if  that  fleshless  mouth  could  speak, 
And  cease  its  grim,  post-mortem  smile, 

Wouldst  thou' confess  thy  bloody  deeds 
And  fill  these  ears  with  stories  vile? 

As  when  thy  mortal  tongue  was  wont 

To  boast  of  all  thy  bloody  crimes, 
And  how  thy  evil  life  was  spent 

In  seeking  scalps  those  by-gone  times. 
23 


C3 
I" 


8: 


TO  AN  INDIAN  SKULL  25 

And  how,  when  on  the  Western  plains, 
With  war-plume  dipped  in  paleface  gore, 

That  lofty  crest  was  parted  with 
The  raven  locks  it  proudly  wore. 

Where  didst  thou  get  this  woman's  scalp 
That  with  thee  in  the  tomb  was  found, 

With  scars  of  tomahawk  and  knife, 
And  weeping  willow  bent  around  ? 

Came  it  from  some  fair  maiden's  head, 

Whose  relatives  had  gone  before, 
Slain  by  thy  relentless  band, 

Which  thirsted  for  the  white  man's  gore? 

Or  did  it  come  from  matron  dame, 
Whose  little  ones  bewailed  her  fate, 

As  to  her  bleeding  form  they  clung, 
The  victim  of  the  red  man's  hate? 

O  ghastly  relic  of  departed  life, 

Whose  changeless  smile  is  ever  bold, 

Couldst  thou  but  voice  thy  crimson  past, 
What  grewsome  tales  thou  couldst  unfold ! 


Grub  Pile 

FROM  out  the  mess-tent's  grimy  door, 
Making  the  cowboy's  heart  grow  sore, 
Morn  after  morn,  in  the  same  old  style, 
Comes  the  cook's  call  of  "Grub  Pile." 
To  each  cowboy  it  means  the  same, 
No  matter  what  may  be  his  name; 
In  the  morn's  chill  air  it  sounds  a  mile — 
That  rasping  cook's  call  of  "Grub  Pile." 
How  harsh  it  seems  to  the  waking  ear 
When  one  more  dream  would  be  so  dear! 
Ah!  naught  will  ever  reconcile 
The  soul  to  that  old  call,  "Grub  Pile." 


Bill  and  Parson  Sim 

ILL  RILEY  was  a  cowboy, 

And  a  quicker  shot  than  him, 
There  was  n't  in  the  country, 
Exceptin'  Parson  Sim. 

And  I  reckon  you  could  ride  the  trail 

From  Texas  to  the  line, 
And  braver  men  than  Bill  and  Sim 

I  bet  you  could  n't  find. 

Bill  he  was  tall  and  lanky, 
With  black  and  piercin'  eyes 

That  seemed  to  flash  like  lightnin' 
When  storm  is  in  the  skies. 

His  voice  was  soft  and  solemn-like, 

His  heart  was  kind  and  true, 
But  he  could  paint  the  town  as  red 

As  any  man  I  knew. 
27 


28  BILL   AND  PARSON  SIM 

Sim  he  was  mighty  near  as  tall, 
With  sunny  eyes  of  blue 

That  seemed  to  laugh  and  sparkle, 
As  eyes  will  sometimes  do. 

The  boys  they  called  him  Parson, 
He  owed  it  to  his  hair, 

And  to  the  classic  language 

He  'd  use  when  he  would  swear. 

They  chummed  as  boys  together, 
And  learned  to  shoot  and  ride ; 

Worked  for  the  same  cow  outfits, 
And  grew  up  side  by  side. 

One  bed  it  always  done  for  both; 

They  used  the  same  war-sack, 
Stuck  up  for  one  another, 

'Nd  all  their  money 'd  whack. 

Well,  Bill  and  Sim  one  winter— 

'T  was  back  in  '89 — 
Were  batchin'  near  a  tradin'  post 

Up  north  close  to  the  line. 


BILL   AND  PARSON  SIM  29 

And  they  was  havin'  rafts  of  fun 

And  spendin'  lots  of  coin, 
Between  the  little  tradin'  post 

And  old  Fort  Assneboin. 

But  one  night  they  took  in  a  dance, 

And  there  they  met  a  gal, 
'T  was  old  Buck  Berry's  daughter — 

His  oldest  daughter,  Val. 

Her  right  name  it  was  Valentine, 

They  called  her  Val  for  short, 
She  was  as  fine  a  little  rose 

As  bloomed  in  that  resort. 

Her  hair  was  kinder  yaller, 

And  shined  like  placer  gold; 
And  on  the  hearts  of  Bill  and  Sim 

She  got  an  awful  hold. 

So  when  she  danced  with  other  men, 

Well,  Bill,  he'd  hit  the  kag, 
And  when  Sim  could  n't  get  her  smiles, 

He,  too,  would  want  a  jag. 


3<D  BILL   AND   PARSON   SIM 

Waltz,  quadrille,  and  polkey 
Was  danced  till  break  of  day, 

And  both  the  fiddlers  got  so  drunk, 
The  durned  chumps  could  n't  play. 

Old  Berry  he  was  loaded,  too, 
And  pulled  his  forty-five, 

And  worked  on  one  musichin, 
Like  bee  upon  his  hive. 

But  narry  toon  could  Berry 

With  all  his  labor  git ; 
The  women-folks  put  on  their  wraps, 

An'  dancin'  had  to  quit. 

'T  was  then  the  bloody  fight  was  fit, 

The  worst  I  ever  saw, 
And  I  have  seen  some  red-hot  scraps 

Come  off  without  a  flaw. 

You  see,  Bill,  he  was  stalkin'  round, 

Intoxicated  quite 
On  love  and  Injun  whisky, 

And  it  chin'  for  a  fight. 


32  BILL   AND  PARSON  SIM 

While  Parson  Sim,  he,  too,  had  on 

A  pretty  decent  load, 
'Nd  tackled  Val  to  take  her  home, 

In  language  a-la-mode. 

But  just  as  he  was  askin'  her, 

And  she  got  up  to  go, 
Bill,  he  come  up  to  where  they  was, 

A-walkin'  kind  of  slow. 

And  with  a  sort  o'  stately  bow, 
He  turned  his  back  on  Sim, 

And  asked  Val  if  she  would  n't  take 
The  homeward  ride  with  him. 

Well,  't  was  over  in  a  second, 
A  few  cuss-words  was  said; 

Sim  he  was  grazed  along  the  cheek, 
And  Bill's  was  through  the  head. 

And  there  poor  Bill  lay  bleedin', 
A-gaspin'  hard  for  breath, 

With  Sim  a-standin'  over  him, 
His  face  as  white  as  death. 


BILL  AND  PARSON  SIM  33 

A  look  of  horror  crossed  his  face, 

'Nd  sorrer  rilled  his  eyes, 
As  Bill's  brave  spirit  left  the  clay, 

And  started  for  the  skies. 

I  reckon  that  he  thought  of  how 

In  all  those  happy  years, 
They  both  had  been  like  brothers, 

And  shared  their  joys  and  fears. 

Then  moanin'  like,  he  took  the  gal, 

And  started  for  the  door, 
For  she  had  fainted  dead  away 

When  Bill  dropped  to  the  floor. 

But  there  were  soldiers  in  the  room, 

Just  waitin'  for  a  show 
To  perforate  a  cowboy, 

Like  Parson  Sim,  you  know. 

And  with  a  yell  they  pulled  their  guns, 

And  made  a  sudden  rush ; 
They  thought  they  held  a  winnin'  hand, 

But  Sim  he  had  a  flush. 


34  BILL  AND  PARSON  SIM 

For  now  his  fightin'  blood  was  up, 

And  layin'  Val  aside, 
To  get  her  out  of  danger, 

He  let  the  bullets  slide. 

And  every  time  his  gun  would  crack, 

A  soldier  hit  the  floor; 
The  room  was  filled  with  powder  smoke, 

And  ran  with  U.  S.  gore. 

Old  Buck  he  got  his  gal  away, 
Then  he  come  back  to  fight, 

But  everything  was  over, 
And  he  saw  an  awful  sight. 

The  soldiers  they  was  lyin'  round, 

A  dozen  men  or  more; 
Looked  like  the  field  of  Gettysburg, 

So  many  strewed  the  floor. 

And  Parson  Sim  was  dyin', 

With  his  arms  around  poor  Bill, 

His  head  a-lyin'  on  the  breast 
That  now  was  cold  and  still. 


BILL  AND  PARSON  SIM  35 

He  'd  won  the  fight  though  wounded, 

Then  kneelin'  by  the  sp.ot 
Where  Bill  was  lyin'  cold  in  death, 

He  fired  the  fatal  shot 

That  let  him  follow  after  Bill ; 

He  died  without  a  groan, 
And  with  Bill  restin'  in  his  arms, 

He  sought  the  great  unknown. 

We  laid  them  on  a  sunny  hill, 

They  're  sleepin'  side  by  side 
Beneath  the  Western  prairie  soil, 

Where  once  they  used  to  ride. 

And  Val  she  never  married, 

But  sometimes  comes  to  weep, 
And  wet  the  flowers  with  her  tears, 

Where  both  her  lovers  sleep. 


At  the  Animal  Convention 


Rabbit— 

I N  sweet  repose  beneath  the  rose, 
*     Where  gentle  breezes  sigh, 
On  nature's  breast  I  fain  would  rest 
Forever  and  for  aye. 


In  forest  wilds,  where  nature  smiles, 
From  hunters  I  would  hide, 

And  softly  dream  of  wood  and  stream, 
While  shadows  softly  glide. 

Amid  white  bones  and  pine-tree  cones 
On  barren  mountain's  crown, 

In  darksome  cave,  with  paw  to  lave, 
I  fain  would  lay  me  down. 

I  long  to  sleep  where  blood  runs  deep, 
And  dream  of  rippling  gore; 

I  'd  like  to  eat  a  ton  of  meat 
And  then — to  eat  some  more. 
•       36 


Wolf— 


The  Old  Cowboy's  Tale 


you  are,  son;  in  them  days 
A  whizzer  x  would  n't  go; 
And  when  a  man  would  try  it  on, 
His  blood  would  shorely  flow. 

"I  reckolect  a  incident 

That  happened  up  the  crick, 
Between  a  loud-mouthed  whizzer-man 

And  Oklahoma  Dick. 

"This  whizzer  gent  was  on  a  tare, 

An'  takin'  in  the  town, 
An'  in  his  rig  an'  shootin'  irons 

Looked  scary,2  I'll  be  boun'.  LJ 

"He  loomed  up  tall  an'  savage, 

Like  a  hungry  grizzly  bear,  L"| 
With  shootin'  irons  'nd  bowie-knives, 

'Nd  long  black  curly  hair.  ^  _  LJp 

1  Bravado,  or  a  show  of  fight  without  the  necessary 

nerve  to  back  it,  commonly  called  a  bluff.  I  •       ^^ 

2  Threatening. 

37 


SS 


38  THE   OLD   COWBOY'S    TALE 

"Well,  Dick  an'  me  was  sittin'  in 
The  Bloody  Heart  saloon, 

An'  listenin'  to  the  talent  there 
A-renderin'  of  a  toon. 

"When  in  this  locoed  stranger  comes 

A-twirlin'  of  his  guns, 
'Nd  grindin'  of  his  snarly  teeth, 

From  which  terbakker  runs. 

"  'Nd  shakin'  out  a  load  or  two 
To  kind  o'  stop  the  deal, 

He  yelled  out  in  a  bawlin'  voice 
This  darin'-like  appeal: 

"'My  name  is  Long-haired  Carter, 
An'  my  fad  is  killin'  men; 

A  corpse,  it  is  my  only  friend; 
My  home,  a  slaughter-pen. 

" '  I  'm  rattlesnake  an'  grizzly, 
My  drink  is  pizen  straight ; 

I  live  on  blood  'nd  powder  smoke. 
And  light 'nin'  is  my  gait. 


THE   OLD   COWBOY'S    TALE  39 

"'My  yell  is  like  a  death-knell; 

I  wade  in  human  gore; 
The  bravest  men,  they  fan  the  breeze 

Whene'er  they  hear  my  roar. 

"'My  eye  is  like  the  eagle's, 

My  hand  is  sudden  death; 
A  graveyard  blossoms  at  my  door, 

And  hell  is  in  my  breath. 

' ' '  The  only  music  that  I  love 

Comes  from  a  forty-five; 
I  've  killed  more  human  bein's 

Than  any  man  alive.' 

"And  when  he  finished  up  his  song, 

He  sorter  glared  around, 
As  though  a-lookin'  for  some  chap 

Who  hankered  to  be  downed. 

"Well,  everything  subsided  when 

The  stranger  took  the  floor; 
Some  thought  they  was  n't  needed, 

And  vanished  out  the  door. 


40  THE   OLD   COWBOY'S   TALE 

"The  musick,  it  was  grindin'  out 

A  soft  and  sollum  air; 
When  Dick,  he  quietly  got  up, 

'Nd,  pushin'  back  his  chair, 

"He  sauntered  kinder  calmly  up 

To  that  bloodthirsty  guy ; 
Bit  off  a  chew  of  twisted  plug, 
'Nd  spit  it  in  his  eye. 

"Then  like  a  flash  his  gun  he  pulled 
'Nd  brought  her  up,  full  cocked, 

To  where  old  Long-hair's  visage  was 
A-lookin'  kind  of  shocked. 

"Of  course,  we  all  expected  then 
To  see  some  shootin'  done, 

'Nd  crowded  backward  out  of  range 
'Nd  waited  for  the  fun. 

"  Well,  you  oughter  seen  that  bully, 
With  the  juice  a-running  down, 

'Nd  drippin'  off  his  whiskers 
With  a  soft  and  sick'nin'  sound. 


THE    OLD   COWBOY'S    TALE  4! 

"  'Nd  thro  win'  up  his  shakin'  hands 

As  high  as  he  could  reach, 
He  dropped  a-tremblin'  on  his  knees 

'Nd  gave  out  this  beseech: 

"Oh!  pardner,  save  my  life,'  said  he, 

4 1  would  n't  hurt  a  child; 
My  name  is  just  plain  Carter, 

And  I  'm  anything  but  wild. 

"Don't  shoot,  for  God's  sake,  pard,'  he  said; 

*  I  did  n't  mean  no  harm/ 
You  see,  Dick's  old  six-shooter, 

It  worked  a  sort  of  charm. 

"Well,  Dick  he  emptied  out  his  gun, 

And  drilled  a  hole  or  two 
In  Long-hair's  hat  and  whiskers 

For  the  wind  to  whistle  through. 

"And  then  he  made  him  pull  his  freight, 

With  orders  not  to  lag 
Nor  loiter  by  the  roadside  till 

He  struck  the  sage-brush  sag. 


42  THE   OLD   COWBOTS    TALE 

"Well,  Carter  did  n't  wait  to  get 
A  second  bid,  you  know, 

But  hit  the  highest  places 
In  his  eagerness  to  go. 

"No,  son;  you  could  n't  work  a  bluff 
Them  days,  an'  make  it  stick; 

For  if  you  ever  tried  it  on, 
Some  gent  was  sure  to  kick.'* 


V 
•b 


A  Father's  Advice  to  his  Son 

N'T  marry  a  girl  with  dark  blue  eyes, 
Whose  love,  the  bards  say,  never  dies ; 
Their  minds  are  narrow,  their  hearts  are  small, 
Their  natures  composed  of  unlimited  gall. 

Beware  of  the  girl  with  eyes  of  gray, 
For  when  you  're  wed  she  '11  want  full  sway 
Of  your  business  affairs ;  also  will  use 
Your  hat,  necktie,  and,  perhaps,  your  shoes. 

Avoid  the  girl  with  the  soft,  brown  eye; 
They  're  all  coquettes  of  the  deepest  dye ; 
So  watch  yourself  when  one  you  meet, 
For,  for  downright  flirts,  they  can't  be  beat. 

All  black-eyed  girls  be  sure  to  shun, 
They  cause  most  evil  now-days,  son. 
In  fact,  if  this  life  you  would  enjoy, 
Stay  single  as  long  as  you  can,  my  boy. 


43 


The  Wolf  Hunt 

VER  the  hills  on  a  winter's  morn, 

In  the  rosy  glow  of  a  day  just  born, 
With  the  eager  hounds  so  fleet  and  strong, 
On  the  gray  wolf's  track  we  jog  along. 

Closely  scanning  with  anxious  eyes 
The  snowy  crest  of  each  rocky  rise, 
Stealthily  on  in  the  morning  air, 
The  gray  wolf  seeks  his  rocky  lair. 

Back  from  the  spoils  of  a  midnight  raid, 
Red  are  his  jaws  from  the  feast  he  made; 
But,  cunning  as  ever,  he  glances  round 
And  sniffs  the  snow  on  the  frozen  ground. 

And  now  he  stops  and  glances  back 
On  the  crooked  windings  of  his  track; 
For,  softly  on  the  breeze  has  come 
A  scent  that  makes  his  fierce  heart  numb. 
44 


46  THE    WOLF  HUNT 

He  also  hears  the  crushing  sound 

Of  trampling  hoofs  on  the  frozen  ground, 

And  off  he  starts  in  sudden  fear; 

His  instinct  tells  him  foes  are  near. 

And  run  thou  must  the  Bad  Lands  o'er 
As  thou  hast  never  run  before ; 
For  like  the  wind  o'er  hill  and  brake, 
Grim  Death  comes  dashing  in  thy  wake. 

And  now  the  hounds  are  in  full  sight, 
All  eager  for  the  coming  fight, 
Urged  on  by  many  a  lusty  cheer 
From  mounted  hunters  in  the  rear. 

Foremost  in  the  chase  comes  Fly, 
Like  meteor  flashing  through  the  sky; 
Then  neck  to  neck  and  nose  to  nose, 
Brave  Sport  and  Pedro  swiftly  close 
The  intervening  space  that 's  spread 
Between  them  and  the  wolf  ahead — 

While  each  one  eager  for  the  race, 
And  old  Don  bravely  setting  pace, 


THE    WOLF  HUNT  47 

/ 

Bob  and  Queenie,  Prince  and  White, 
Speed  swiftly  in  the  morning  light ; 
Their  motto  is  to  do  or  die, 
And  naught  but  blood  will  satisfy. 

Foot  by  foot  and  yard  by  yard, 

With  waning  strength  and  breathing  hard. 

The  wolf  is  swiftly  losing  ground; 

He  feels  the  breath  of  the  leading  hound ; 

His  fierce  jaws  snap,  his  eye-balls  glare, 

He  struggles  hard  in  mad  despair. 

The  race  is  o'er,  the  battle  won, 

The  wolf  lies  dying  in  the  sun; 

His  midnight  raids  are  of  the  past, 

He's  met  the  conquering  foe  at  last. 

Well  done,  brave  hounds!     Your  savage  prey 

Was  shrewdly  caught  and  killed  to-day. 


Human  Discontent 

'HP  WAS  stifling  hot,  in  the  month  of  May, 

*       And  all  the  people  had  much  to  say 
About  the  heat,  and  the  need  of  rain, 
In  order  to  save  the  farmers'  grain. 
And  so  the  people  in  every  town 
Prayed  that  the  rain  might  soon  come  down, 
And  their  prayers  were  answered,  and  none  too  soon, 
For  the  weather  was  dry  till  the  first  of  June; 
And  the  sky  that  for  days  had  been  so  clear 
Now  showed  signs  that  a  storm  was  near. 
The  clouds  on  the  earth  their  contents  poured, 
The  lightning  flashed  and  the  thunder  roared, 
And  joy  replaced  each  look  of  care 
As  the  grateful  drops  passed  through  the  air; 
And  men  who  for  weeks  had  looked  so  sad, 
Sang  and  joked,  for  their  hearts  were  glad. 
Each  wild  flower  raised  its  drooping  head, 

And  a  look  of  gladness  the  land  o'erspread; 

48 


HUMAN  DISCONTENT  49 

And  the  hosts  of  insects  that  came  in  waves 
Now  lay  dead  in  their  watery  graves. 
How  musical  sounded  the  soothing  rain, 
As  it  pattered  on  roof  and  window-pane. 
When  the  dark'ning  shadows  seemed  to  glide 
Through  the  driving  mists  at  eventide; 
But  when  a  month  had  passed  away, 
And  the  rain  continued  to  fall  each  day, 
The  people  began  to  groan  and  fret, 
And  wish  the  country  were  not  so  wet. 
And  campers  who  had  planned  for  days. 
Now  longed  for  the  sun  to  shed  its  rays, 
And  that  the  sky  would  change  its  hue 
From  sombre  gray  to  its  natural  blue. 
But  behind  the  clouds  the  sun  still  shone 
In  the  broad  expanse  of  heaven's  blue  dome, 
And  a  brilliant  rainbow  in  hues  galore 
Informed  us  all  that  the  rain  was  o  'er. 
But  thus  it  is  that  the  human  mind 
Will  always  have  some  fault  to  find 
With  nature,  as  though  God  did  not  know 
When  to  have  sunshine,  rain,  or  snow. 


Hidden  Treasure  Mine 

H !  them  good  old  lucky  days, 

Them  days  of  golden  time, 
When  Alder  Gulch  was  famous, 

And  Last  Chance  in  its  prime; 
When  gold  dust  was  as  common 

As  needles  on  the  pine, 
And  Jim  and  me  was  workin' 
In  the  Hidden  Treasure  mine. 

The  Treasure  was  a  placer  mine, 

And  every  single  day 
We  made  a  clean-up  of  the  dust 

That  in  her  sluices  lay. 
And  while  the  evenin'  zeffers  blew 

We  saw  the  nuggets  shine, 
When  Jim  and  me  was  workin' 

In  the  Hidden  Treasure  mine. 
50 


HIDDEN    TREASURE  MINE  51 

Them  days,  we  never  used  to  think 

Or  care  about  the  way 
That  politicians  spent  their  cash, 

Nor  what  they  had  to  say ; 
For  men  had  to  be  honest, 

Or  else  they  'd  stretch  a  line, 
When  Jim  and  me  was  workin' 

In  the  Hidden  Treasure  mine. 

And  when  I  sit  and  ponder 

On  them  old  happy  days, 
When  men  were  brave  and  loyal, 

Though  reckless  in  their  ways, — 
The  sun  it  does  n't  seem  so  bright 

As  when  it  used  to  shine, 
When  Jim  and  me  was  workin' 

In  the  Hidden  Treasure  mine. 

But  now  poor  Jim  has  passed  away, 

The  Treasure  is  all  gone; 
Old  Alder  Gulch  and  Last  Chance, 

Are  sad  to  look  upon; 


52  HIDDEN   TREASURE  MINE 

For  now,  above  the  very  spot, 
A  jobber  hangs  his  sign 

Where  Jim  and  me  we  used  to  work 
The  Hidden  Treasure  mine. 


Sunrise  in  the  Bad  Lands 

HPHE  dawn  is  breaking  in  the  east, 

*       Above  the  Bad  Land  hills; 
An  early  rising  camp -bird  sweet 
His  morning  carol  trills. 

A  rabbit  darts  behind  a  bush, 

And  sits  in  comic  pose 
To  gaze  with  startled  eyes  at  one 

Of  bunnie's  human  foes. 

The  month  is  crisp  November,  and 
The  brown  earth  calmly  sleeps 

Beneath  the  pure  white  mantle,  that 
Upon  her  bosom  heaps. 

The  camp-fire  smoke  goes  curling  out 

Upon  the  morning  breeze, 
With  rare  and  grotesque  forms  that  float 

Among  the  leafless  trees. 
53 


54  SUNRISE  IN   THE  BAD  LANDS 

The  timid  deer  comes  down  to  drink 
And  play  upon  the  sand, 

Along  the  old  Missouri's  bank, 
So  picturesque  and  grand. 

Then  suddenly  from  out  her  bed, 
The  sun  breaks  into  view; 

To  bid  the  world  good-morrow  with 
A  greeting  ever  new. 


The  Cowboy's  Fate 


night  on  the  fall  beef  round-up, 
In  October  of  ninety-three, 
Jack  and  I  stood  guard  together  — 
This  is  what  he  said  to  me  : 

"Yes,  Bill,  times  have  changed  a  little, 
Since  first  we  learned  to  ride  ; 

Country's  full  of  barbed-wire  fences, 
And  the  range  is  not  so  wide. 

"And,  Bill,  you  are  rich  and  happy, 

Got  a  wife  and  lots  of  gold; 
Been  a  man  and  stuck  to  business, 

While  I  —  well,  I  'm  getting  old. 

"Yes,  I've  been  in  many  places, 
Sorter  on  the  French  qui  vive; 

Would  n't  get  but  just  located, 
When  I  'd  up  and  have  to  leave. 

55 


$6  THE   COWBOY'S  FATE 

"Have  to  pack  my  bed  and  vanish; 

Pull  out  for  the  high  divide ; 
Seek  a  new  range,  strike  a  cow  ranch, 

Settle  down  and  try  to  ride. 

"Get  a  good  job  on  the  round-up, 
Make  a  stake  and  go  to  town ; 

There  fill  up  on  Injun  whisky, 
Pull  my  gun  and  saunter  'roun'. 

"Smoke  the  town  and  whip  the  sheriff, 
Play  'em  high  and  shoot  and  shout, 

Till  the  air  was  filled  with  music 
And  the  people  all  hied  out. 

"Then  I'd  saddle  up  my  private, 
Fog  the  street  lights  on  the  run, 

Till  I  struck  the  open  prairie — 
Then  my  painting  job  was  done. 

"That  is  why  I'm  here  to-night,  Bill, 
Ridin'  roun'  this  old  beef  herd, 

Listening  to  the  coyotes  holler — 
Echoes  of  the  life  I  've  blurred. 


THE    COWBOY'S  FATE  57 

"And  it  seems  like  luck's  against  me, 

Now  that  I  am  getting  gray; 
For  you  know  the  good  old  sayin', 

'  Every  dog  will  have  his  day.' 

"I  can't  stand  the  hard  knocks  now,  Bill, 

That  I  used  to  think  was  fun ; 
And  I  'm  like  an  old  cow  pony 

That's  forgotten  how  to  run. 

"Say,  Bill,  you  may  think  I'm  nervy, — 

Would  n't  ask  if  I  was  flush ; 
But  a  man  can't  stan'  to  winter 

Like  a  dogie  in  the  brush. 

"And  I  thought  I'd  better  ask,  Bill, 

If  you  'd  let  me  have  a  show 
Just  to  earn  a  winter's  grub  stake, 

Even  if  it 's  shovelin'  snow. 

"For,  you  see,  I  ain't  partic'lar 

What  I  drive  at  nowadays, 
Just  to  earn  an  honest  livin', 

For  it 's  steady  work  that  pays. 


58  THE   COWBOY'S  FATE 

"And  a  man  can't  make  a  fortune 
Paintin'  towns  and  gettin'  drunk; 

Tried  it  long  enough  to  know.  Bill,— 
Wish  I  'd  all  the  coin  I  've  sunk. 

"Thanks;  I  knew  't  would  be  a  cold  day 
When  you  would  n't  help  me,  Bill; 

Did  n't  know  jest  where  I  'd  winter, 
And  the  weather's  gettin'  chill. 

"These  nights  makes  a  feller  wonder 
Where  his  summer  work  has  gone; 

When  the  frost  sticks  to  his  whiskers, 
And  he  needs  a  coonskin  on. 

"Hope  we'll  have  a  few  more  warm  days, 
Till  we  get  these  cattle  shipped ; 

For  this  wind  cuts  like  a  blizzard, 
Makes  me  feel  like  I  'd  been  whipped. 

• 

"Two  o'clock!     Well,  who'd  'a'  thought  it? 

Time  has  flew  on  angel's  wings, 
As  I  heard  an  Eastern  feller 

Tell  a  girl  down  at  the  Springs; 


t 

,0 


60  THE   COWBOY'S  FATE 

"So,  I  guess  I'd  better  hurry 
And  wake  up  the  next  relief; 

Guess  camp 's  over  in  that  coulee, 
Just  beyond  the  rocky  reef. 

"So  long,  Bill;  I'll  see  you  later!" 
And  old  Jack  passed  out  of  sight, — 

Gaily  singing  as  he  galloped 

To  his  death  that  stormy  night. 

For  we  found  his  lifeless  body 
When  the  morning  sun  arose, 

With  the  diamond  frost  still  sparkling 
On  his  blood-bespattered  clothes. 

For,  you  see,  his  horse  had  fallen; 

Struck  a  hole,  and  Jack  was  caught, 
With  his  head  crushed  on  a  boulder — 

Thus  his  tragic  death  was  wrought. 

Poor  old  Jack!     Good-hearted  always; 

May  his  soul  in  peace  abide, 
Where  good  cowboys  ride  in  comfort, 

Far  beyond  the  "Great  Divide." 


Jack  and  Bill 

T  TEMMED  in  by  the  fierce  Nez  Perce, 
•*•  •*•      On  a  wild  and  barren  hill, 
Lay  two  cowboys,  bravely  fighting — 
One  is  Jack;  the  other,  Bill. 

Fiercely  yell  the  painted  redskins, 

As  they  circle  to  and  fro, 
Eager  for  the  white  man's  scalp-lock, 

And  to  see  his  life-blood  flow. 

Long  and  well  the  white  men  battle, 
One  by  one  the  redskins  fall, — 

Till  at  length  poor  Bill  falls  backward, 
Wounded  by  a  rifle  ball. 

"Jack,  old  man,  my  days  are  ended; 

That  last  shot  was  through  the  breast 
But,  before  I  cross  the  river, 

Grant  me  this  one  last  request. 
61 


62  JACK  AND  BILL 

"  Promise  me  that  when  I  've  drifted 
To  that  land  where  cowboys  go, 

That  you'll  let  my  dear,  old  parents 
And  my  faithful  sweetheart  know. 

"Take  this  ring  and  pack  of  letters, 
And  this  lock  of  golden  hair; 

Give  them  back  to  gentle  Nellie, 
To  my  love,  so  true  and  fair. 

"She'll  be  waiting  in  the  twilight, 
'Neath  the  hemlock  on  the  hill, 

Where  the  morning-glory  blossoms, 
Round  the  old,  moss-covered  mill. 

"Tell  her  how  I've  been  intending, 
When  the  fall  round-up  was  o'er, 

To  return  and  keep  my  promise 
And  to  ride  the  range  no  more." 

Then  poor  Bill  fell  back  unconscious, 
While  old  Jack  fought  grimly  on, — • 

Fought  until  the  shadows  lengthened 
And  the  light  of  day  was  gone. 


.2 


64  JACK  AND   BILL 

Night  came  on,  and  in  the  darkness, 
While  the  redskin  sentries  slept, 

With  Bill  lashed  upon  his  shoulders, 
Old  Jack  down  a  coulee  crept. 

Struggled  over  rocks  and  sage-brush, 
Through  a  long  and  sultry  night, 

Till  the  sunshine  of  the  morning 

Brought  the  round-up  camp  in  sight. 

Back  to  life  the  cowboys  nursed  Bill, 
Back  to  life  and  health  once  more, 

And  he  duly  kept  his  promise 
When  the  fall  round-up  was  o'er. 

Jack  returned  the  ring  and  letters 
And  the  lock  of  golden  hair, 

But  to  Bill's  thanks  would  n't  listen, 
Said,  for  thanks  he  did  n't  care. 

Years  have  passed,  and  in  a  valley, 
Living  with  the  birds  and  bees, 

Bill  and  Nell  their  nest  have  feathered, 
Sheltered  round  by  greenwood  trees. 


JACK  AND  BILL 

There  they  dwell  in  loving  union, 

Living  but  to  live  again : 
Nell,  the  happiest  of  women; 

Bill,  the  happiest  of  men. 

While,  in  endless,  dreamless  slumber, 
Where  the  blue-bells  raise  their  crests, 

With  his  task  on  earth  completed, 
Old  Jack  in  a  coulee  rests. 

Born  and  bred  in  Western  freedom, 
Rough  he  was ;  but  who  can  say 

That  the  books  will  not  be  balanced 
In  his  favor  Judgment  Day. 

5 


The  Obsequies  of  Jack 


old  Jack!  we  chose  his  bed-ground 
Where  the  lone  pine  throws  its  shade  ; 
And  the  willows  wept  in  silence 
Near  the  grave  we  sadly  made. 

Softly  fell  the  snow,  and  ghostly, 
Like  a  shroud  it  hid  the  ground  ; 

And,  except  the  parson's  preaching, 
Silence  reigned  supreme  around. 

And  we  felt  a  trifle  lonesome, 

As  around  the  open  grave 
We  listened  to  the  parson's  words: 

"  He  hath  taken  what  He  gave," 

Or  other  words  to  that  effect, 

I  can't  remember  now; 
But  which  "seemed  fitten"  at  the  time, 

I  heard  old  Bill  allow. 
66 


THE   OBSEQUIES  OF  JACK  67 

At  the  wind-up  of  the  sermon, 
We  all  sang  Sweet  Bye  and  Bye; 

Likewise  rendered  Rock  of  Ages 
And  A  Mansion  in  the  Sky. 

And,  as  in  the  grave  we  lowered 
That  brave  form,  to  rise  no  more, 

Every  eye  was  overflowin', 

Every  cowboy's  heart  was  sore. 

"Dust  of  dust  to  dust  returneth," 

Then  the  parson  slowly  said; 
And  the  words  seemed  sad  and  sollum 

To  us  mourners  of  the  dead. 

Thus  we  planted  Jack  that  evening, 
While  the  snow-flakes  softly  fell, 

And  he  sleeps  within  the  bosom 
Of  the  West  he  loved  so  well. 


The  Cowboy's  Grave 

r  I  ^HE  cow-herd  grazes  calmly 

*       Among  the  grassy  hills, 
And  a  soft  Montana  zephyr 
The  sultry  air  distills. 

The  sun  is  sinking  in  the  west, 

The  sky  is  bathed  in  gold, 
And  I  listened  to  the  cowboy  speak 

As  this  sad  tale  he  told : 

"See  that  lone  tree  in  the  coulee, 

Just  beyond  the  rocky  reef, 
Where  the  giant  granite  boulder 

Stands  out  in  such  bold  relief? 

"Well,  that  lone  pine  marks  the  bed-ground 

Of  Jack's  last,  long  repose; 
Where  the  blue-bells  nod  in  sorrow 

When  the  breeze  at  evening  blows. 
68 


THE   COWBOY'S  GRAVE  69 

"And  the  gray  wolf's  howl  seems  dismal, 
When  the  nights  are  cold  and  drear, 

Like  a  lost  soul's  wail  for  mercy, 
Drawn  out  so  long  and  clear. 

"There,  in  his  lowly  bed,  Jack  sleeps 

Beneath  the  rocky  soil. 
No  more  he  '11  ride  the  festive  bronk, 

No  more  the  rope  he  '11  coil. 

"No  more  he'll  paint  the  Western  towns, 

As  in  the  days  of  yore ; 
For  Jack  has  crossed  the  river,  and 

Will  ride  the  range  no  more. 

"No  doubt  you've  heard  the  story 

Of  how  he  met  his  end, 
Between  the  camp  and  cattle 

Down  yonder  in  the  bend? 

"And  how  his  old  friend  Bill  stood  guard 

All  through  that  stormy  night, 
A-singin'  to  that  wild  beef  herd 

Until  't  was  broad  daylight  ? 


7O  THE   COWBOY'S  GRAVE 

"And  how  they  found  Jack's  body 
When  the  morning  sun  arose, 

With  the  diamond  frost  still  glistenin' 
On  his  face  and  bloody  clothes? 

"And  I  reckon  you  have  heard  of  how 

His  friend  Bill  rode  to  town, 
To  get  a  preacher  and  a  box 

To  plant  Jack  in  the  groun'  ? 

"  You  see,  they  'd  been  together,  off 

And  on,  for  many  years, 
And  when  Bill  heard  that  Jack  was  dead, 

He  lost  some  bitter  tears. 

"And  when  poor  Jack  was  buried, 

The  cowboys  stood  around, 
And  watched  the  coffin  lowered 

In  the  cold  and  dreary  ground. 

"You've  heard  of  how  they  knelt  that  day 

Beneath  a  wintry  sky, 
And  listened  to  the  parson's  words, 

While  not  an  eye  was  dry? 


THE   COWBOY'S  GRAVE  71 

"And  how  his  grave  is  kept  so  green 

By  Bill,  whose  life  he  saved 
When  he  was  sorely  wounded, 

And  with  the  fever  raved? 

"And  when  those  reckless  fellows 

Lay  cornered  in  the  hills 
Behind  their  slaughtered  horses, 

He  nigh  gave  his  life  for  Bill's? 

"But  that's  another  story, 

And  it 's  time  for  me  to  start 
These  cattle  for  their  bed-ground, 

So,  my  friend,  we'll  have  to  part." 

And  off  in  haste  the  cowboy  dashed 

In  the  soft  and  mellow  light, 
To  point  the  cattle  toward  the  spot 

Selected  for  the  night. 

And  as  I  rode  to  that  lone  grave 

Beneath  the  old  pine  tree, 
The  blue-bells  nodded  in  the  wind 

And  seemed  to  welcome  me. 


THE    COWBOY'S   GRAVE  73 

The  little  mound  was  covered 

With  trailing  evergreen, 
And  there  were  signs  of  loving  care 

About  the  silent  scene. 

The  sun's  last  rays  were  glinting 
On  the  pine  board  at  the  head, 

And  the  old  tree  groaned  in  sorrow 
Above  its  cherished  dead. 

And  sitting  there  in  sombre  thought, 

In  the  slowly  fading  light, 
I  read  this  simple  epitaph 

Before  it  passed  from  sight : 

"Here  lies  poor  Jack;  his  race  is  run; 

No  more  this  range  he'll  ride; 
At  last  he's  got  a  steady  job 

Beyond  the  Great  Divide." 

'T  was  carved  in  clear-cut  letters, 

With  rough  but  loving  skill, 
The  date  was  fixed  and  underneath 

The  well-known  name  of  "Bill." 


A  Tale  of  Love 

\  7ENUS,  one  mid  summer  day 
In  all  her  wealth  of  power, 
Sent  little  Cupid  out  to  play 
In  shady  nook  and  bower. 

Then  with  magic  wand  she  led 

Two  young  hearts  to  the  mountains, 

Where  running  brooks  are  amply  fed 
By  Nature's  crystal  fountains. 

And  as  each  pleasant  day  they  spent 

Alone  along  the  river, 
Little  Cupid's  bow  was  bent 

And  arrows  filled  his  quiver. 

And  as  the  time  passed  quickly  by, 

As  time  will  sometimes  do, 
They  wrote  about  the  crimson  sky, 

And  photographed  each  view. 
74 


A    TALE    OF  LOVE 

Then  Cupid,  with  his  little  darts 
All  tipped  and  feathered  neatly, 

Made  war  upon  those  two  young  hearts 
And  routed  them  completely. 

And  as  with  weary  feet  they  fled 
From  Nature's  crystal  fountains, 

They  said  the  things  they  left  unsaid 
Behind  them  in  the  mountains. 


75 


Brookside  Ranch 

1VTESTLED  in  a  fertile  valley, 
*  ^      Where  Dry  Beaver  finds  its  source, 
And  the  Little  Rocky  Mountains 
To  the  clouds  their  summits  force; 

Where  the  wild  and  reckless  cowboy 
Rides  in  all  his  careless  grace, 

Heedless  of  surrounding  dangers, 
Happiest  of  all  his  race; 

Where  the  music  born  of  Nature 

Thrills  the  soul  with  strange  delight, 

As  it  floats  on  western  breezes, 
And  the  days  are  always  bright ; 

Where  the  wild  deer  roam  at  pleasure 
O'er  the  Bad  Land's  rugged  brakes, 
And  the  wild  fowl  fill  the  rushes 

Growing  round  the  prairie  lakes ; 
76 


BROOKSIDE  RANCH  77 

There,  among  the  verdant  foot-hills, 

Near  a  little  mountain  stream, 
Lies  the  ranch — that  dear  "Old  Brookside," 

Lovely  as  a  maiden's  dream. 

Far  from  other  habitation, 

Romance  fills  its  every  lane, 
As  the  changing  landscape  stretches 

From  the  woods  to  treeless  plain. 

And  the  air  was  filled  with  fragrance, 

As  we  strolled,  my  love  and  I, 
In  the  green  and  cooling  meadows 

'Neath  the  blue  Montana  sky. 

There,  among  the  wild-rose  thickets, 

Massed  along  that  little  stream, 
Hand  in  hand  we  strolled  together, — 

Life  was  like  a  summer's  dream. 

Till  one  day  the  voice  of  fortune 

Filled  our  ears  with  gilded  tales, 
And  we  left  our  cherished  "  Brookside  " 

With  its  hills  and  pleasant  dales. 


78  .BROOKSIDE  RANCH 

Left  its  charms,  but  not  forever, 
Such  a  fate  could  never  be, 

Life  would  be  devoid  of  pleasure 
If  our  ranch  we  could  not  see. 

So  each  year  we  '11  pack  our  baggage, 
When  the  days  of  summer  come, 

And  we  '11  spend  a  month  of  pleasure, 
At  our  dear  old  "Brookside"  home. 


The  Indians'  Tale  of  Christ 


CAR  from  the  white-man's  habitation, 
Under  the  northland's  smiling  sun, 
Where,  like  a  huge  wave  rolling  down, 
Mountain  and  plain  blend  into  one; 
There,  where  the  shadows  and  sunbeams  meet, 
Once  was  the  home  of  the  great  Blackfeet. 

Lost  in  the  clouds  that  veil  the  skies, 
The  crest  of  the  Rockies  bravely  rise, 
Jagged  and  crowned  by  eternal  snow, 
Faithfully  guarding  the  plain  below, 
That  by  Dame  Nature's  hand  is  traced 
Like  an  apron  hung  from  her  ample  waist, 
With  rivers  that  burst  from  crystal  springs 
To  act  as  Nature's  apron  strings. 

The  home  of  a  tribe  once  rich  and  strong, 
That  ruled  o'er  their  country  well  and  long. 


8O  THE  INDIANS'    TALE   OF  CHRIST 

But  as  kings  e'en  bow  to  the  hand  of  Fate 
That  makes  brave  hearts  as  desolate 
As  the  barren  sands  of  a  sea-girt  isle, 
So  bows  the  red-man,  and  yet  the  while 
In  his  inmost  soul  he  never  yields, 
But  curbs  the  passion  his  spirit  feels, 
And  trusts  to  the  Manitou,  czar  of  men, 
To  place  him  back  on  his  throne  again. 


In  all  its  strength,  one  summer  day, 
Of  just  what  year  there 's  none  can  say — 
The  old  men  say  't  was  "  long  ago," 
And  what  they  tell  is  all  we  know — 
The  Blackfeet  tribe,  in  grand  display, 
Along  the  Medicine  River  lay 

The  great  sun-dance  with  tortures  vile 
Was  being  danced  in  royal  style, 
And,  grimly,  on  both  day  and  night, 
The  Blackfeet  danced  with  all  their  might; 
The  youthful  braves,  with  savage  zest, 
Enduring  well  the  torture  test. 


THE  INDIANS'    TALE    OF  CHRIST  8 1 

Bathed  in  the  light  of  breaking  day, 
The  camp  in  regal  splendor  lay, 
While  formally  greeting  the  rising  sun 
With  weird  chant  and  doleful  drum, 
Round  and  round  with  solemn  tread, 
The  warriors  danced  and  sang  and  bled. 

Sang  and  danced,  both  young  and  old, 
Praising  the  sun  with  its  beams  of  gold ; 
Danced  as  the  silvery  moonbeams  dance, 
As  on  the  river  they  float  and  glance ; 
Sang  as  the  wind  in  the  tree-top  sings; 
Sang  of  the  joy  that  sunlight  brings. 

Sang  like  the  wolf  on  the  lonely  hill, 
Sang  the  song  of  the  mountain  rill; 
Danced  as  their  fathers  danced  of  old, 
As  into  the  sky  the  great  sun  rolled; 
Sang  and  danced  in  many  ways, 
Blessing  the  sun's  life-giving  rays. 

Thus  it  was  that  summer's  morn, 
When  into  the  Indian  world  was  born 

6 


82  THE  INDIANS'    TALE   OF  CHRIST 

A  Chief  from  out  the  rising  sun, 
Whose  advent  was  a  welcome  one — 
The  Father  of  Men,  the  Manitou, 
Into  the  world  was  born  and  grew. 

Forth  from  the  spirit -land  he  came, 

From  the  happy  hunting-grounds,  his  name 

Soon  dwelt  dear  on  every  tongue, 

His  praise  by  every  lip  was  sung. 

Wise  in  council,  brave  and  true, 

Called  by  men  the  Manitou. 

Wise  was  he,  no  man  as  wise, 

Out  of  death  the  corpse  would  rise; 

The  deaf  could  hear,  the  blind  man  see, 

At  a  word  from  him,  so  wise  was  he. 

Ah!  happy  then  the  people  grew, 

The  world  was  changed  from  old  to  new. 

He  told  of  a  land  beyond  the  sky 
Where  people  live  and  never  die ; 
Dancing  and  singing  they  never  tire; 
Where  suckling  babe  and  white-haired  sire 


84  THE  INDIANS'    TALE   OF  CHRIST 

Are  made  both  strong  of  limb  and  mind, 
And  fleet  of  foot  as  the  prairie  wind; 

Where  people  soar  with  wings  of  snow; 
Where  live  together  friend  and  foe. 
Thus  the  Prophet  came  and  spoke, 
And  in  each  Indian  heart  awoke 
A  feeling  never  there  before — 
A  longing  for  this  mystic  shore. 

But  one  day  when  the  sun  was  cold, 
This  Prophet  sought,  with  footsteps  bold, 
The  buffalo,  where  dwelt  the  Sioux 
Who  knew  not  of  the  Manitou; 
And  they,  while  Heaven  seemed  to  frown, 
Sent  warriors  out  to  strike  him  down. 

But  brave  was  he,  no  man  as  brave; 
He  hurtled  back  the  blows  they  gave, 
And  countless  warriors  bit  the  snow 
Beneath  his  deadly  lance  and  bow. 
Three  long  days  and  weary  nights 
Drag  slowly  on,  and  still  he  fights. 


THE  INDIANS'    TALE    OF  CHRIST  85 

But  on  the  fourth  his  eye  grew  dim, 
His  last  horse  fell  from  under  him; 
His  lance  was  broken,  arrows  gone, 
And  yet  he  battled  bravely  on, 
Hurling  stones  of  wondrous  size 
Till  sank  the  sun  in  western  skies. 

Where,  pausing  on  the  mountain's  brim, 
It  seemed  to  smile  and  beckon  him; 
And  floating  on  its  beams  of  light, 
Into  the  clouds  he  passed  from  sight, 
Back  to  his  home  beyond  the  sky, 
Where  people  live  and  never  die. 

Thus  came  and  went  the  Stranger  Chief, 
And,  though  his  stay  on  earth  was  brief, 
His  teachings  still  remain  behind 
In  many  a  dusky  warrior's  mind. 
And  when  the  sun  sinks  in  the  west, 
The  Blackfeet  say  "He's  gone  to  rest." 


The  Little  Cross 

BACK  in  the  Bad  Lands'  rugged  brakes, 
Colored  by  Nature's  magic  art, 
Stands  a  cabin  in  sad  decay, 

That  mutely  appeals  to  the  human  heart. 

Rudely  it 's  built  of  rough  pine  logs, 
Fitted  together  with  careless  skill, 

And,  but  for  a  little  murmuring  brook, 
The  air  around  is  strangely  still. 

Thickly  the  wild  flowers  blossom  round, 
And  the  summer  sky  is  calm  o'erhead, 

As  the  western  sun  moves  slowly 
In  its  crimson-colored  bed. 

A  magpie  wings  its  solemn  flight 

To  an  old  pine  on  the  hill, 
And  all  seems  sad  and  silent, 

Except  the  noisy  rill. 
86 


THE  LITTLE    CROSS  8/ 

A  coyote  skulks  among  the  rocks 

That  crown  the  near-by  ridge, 
And  a  rabbit  sleeps  beneath  the  shade 

Of  an  old  moss-covered  bridge. 

And  as  I  sit  and  ponder 

And  view  this  silent  scene, 
A  wild  deer  browses  into  view, 

The  jagged  hills  between. 

And  sitting  on  my  restless  horse 

In  blissful  solitude, 
I  gaze  and  yet  I  hesitate 

My  presence  to  intrude. 

And  now  the  magpie  leaves  his  perch 

In  the  old  worm-eaten  pine, 
And  lights  upon  a  little  cross 

Half  hidden  by  a  vine 

That  clusters  round  its  wooden  frame, 

As  if  with  fond  embrace 
To  mark  the  lone  tho'  sacred  spot 

Of  a  child's  last  resting-place. 


88  THE  LITTLE    CROSS 

Only  a  little  grave,  and  yet 
Beneath  that  grassy  mound 

A  little  form  sleeps  calmly  in 
The  cold  and  silent  ground. 

Only  a  little  cross  of  wood 
And  a  morning-glory  vine, 

Sheltered  in  the  cooling  shade 
Of  an  old  storm-beaten  pine. 

I  gently  pushed  the  leaves  aside 
That  clustered  round  the  frame, 

To  see  if  loving  hands  had  traced 
A  line,  or  baby's  name. 

These  simple  lines  and  nothing  more, 
Were  there  to  tell  the  tale 

Of  a  child's  sad  death,  a  broken  heart, 
And  a  mother's  anguished  wail: 

"Little  Ned,  our  darling  tot, 
Sleeps  in  this  wild  and  lonely  spot ; 
And  with  him  sleeps  his  mother's  love, 
His  soul  is  with  his  Father  above." 


THE  LITTLE    CROSS  89 

Ah!  whose  but  a  mother's  gentle  hand 

Could  smooth  with  loving  care 
The  earth  above  her  baby  boy. 

And  place  those  flowers  there? 

For  now  I  see  a  little  bunch 

Of  pansies  dried  and  old, 
Tied  with  a  faded  ribbon, 

All  streaked  with  clinging  mould. 

And  as  I  hastened  from  the  spot 

Beneath  the  old  pine  tree, 
The  coyote  gave  a  mournful  howl 

That  almost  startled  me. 

The  wild  deer  vanished  in  the  hills, 

The  rabbit  left  the  shade 
Beneath  the  old  moss-covered  bridge, 

At  my  unseemly  raid. 

The  magpie  soared  on  solemn  wing 

Above  the  grassy  mound; 
Where  slept  his  little  playmate  in 

The  cold  and  clammy  ground. 


THE  LITTLE    CROSS 

And  rocking  in  the  gentle  breeze 

Above  his  earthly  bed, 
The  old  pine  sang  sweet  lullabies 

Above  its  cherished  dead. 

No  marble  slab  with  chiselled  words 

Could  half  so  sacred  be 
As  that  vine-covered  little  cross 

Beneath  the  old  pine  tree. 


The  Cowboy's  Reply 

and  blemished  and  necked  with  gray, 
A  cow-horse  feebly  stands, 
A  weak  reminder  of  the  day 
He  smote  the  desert  sands 
With  flying  hoofs  that  held  the  speed 

Of  wings  or  prairie  wind, 
The  model  of  a  noble  breed, 
His  equal  hard  to  find. 


But  e'en  as  since  the  world  began, 

The  march  of  Father  Time 
Has  spared  not  beast  nor  even  man, 

But  passeth  on  sublime; 
Hence,  burdened  with  a  score  of  years, 

The  old  horse  bravely  stands, 
No  more  he  '11  chase  the  long-horned  steers 

Across  the  prairie  sands. 
91 


92  THE   COWBOY'S  REPLY 

His  head  drops  low,  a  mist  bedims 

That  eye  once  full  of  pride ; 
A  tremor  passes  through  his  limbs, 

His  age  he  cannot  hide. 
But,  hark!  his  cowboy  owner  speaks, 

With  cold  scorn  in  his  words, 
A  flush  of  pride  lights  up  his  cheeks, 

And  ill  his  wrath  he  curbs : 

"No,  stranger,  not  for  all  the  wool 

That  grows  upon  your  bands, 
Not  even  for  your  money,  fool! 

Nor  all  your  stolen  lands, 
Would  I,  while  able  to  draw  breath 

Or  pull  a  trigger  straight, 
Sell  that  old  friend — I  'd  rather  death 

Would  hurry  up  my  fate. 

"So,  pard,  I  laugh  your  bid  to  scorn! 

Your  money  you  can  keep ! 
For  that  old  horse  was  never  born 

To  drive  a  band  of  sheep!" 


The  Cowboy's  Regret 

\  X  7HOOP-UP  CITY  it  was  called, 

In  them  old,  happy  days, 
When  cowboys  they  wore  cutters 
And  were  genteel  in  their  ways. 

And  when  I  look  at  that  old  town 

And  see  them  cussed  swells 
A-ridin'  wheels  with  boys'  pants  on, 

And  ringin'  little  bells, 

While  by  their  side,  or  else  in  front, 

As  bold  as  any  man, 
A  gal  with  men's  apparel  on 

The  breezes  swiftly  fan, 

Why,  it  makes  me  feel  that  should  this  world 

Come  to  a  sudden  close, 
I  could  gladly  cross  the  river 

That  for  everlastin'  flows. 
93 


94  THE    COWBOY'S  REGRET 

And  with  the  pretty  angel  gals, 
A-soarin'  through  the  sky, 

I  'd  bargain  for  a  pair  of  wings, 
And  try  and  learn  to  fly. 


The  Montanas  at  Caloocan 


'T^HE  boys  lay  in  their  trenches, 

•*•       All  eager  for  the  fray, 
Before  the  town  of  Caloocan 
On  that  eventful  day. 

Old  Glory  floated  overhead, 
And  courage  filled  each  breast, 

For  they  were  from  Montana, 
The  Queen  State  of  the  West. 

Where  Nature  smiles  serenely 

Beneath  a  Western  sky, 
And  the  mountains'  war-scarred  summits 

Echo  back  the  eagle's  cry. 

The  bugle  sounds  the  charge  along 

That  waiting  line  of  blue, 
And  at  its  clear  and  signal  notes 

The  boys  charge  straight  and  true. 
95 


96  THE  M  ON  TAN  AS  AT  CALOOCAN 

"Hurrah  for  the  Montanas!" 
Was  the  shout  that  rent  the  air, 

And  burst  from  Utah  warriors'  throats 
Amid  the  battle's  glare. 

For  step  by  step,  in  perfect  line, 
They  marched  as  on  parade; 

To  take  the  town  or  meet  his  death 
Was  what  each  soldier  prayed. 

Like  countless  wasps  the  bullets  swarm 
Around  that  gallant  band, 

But  on  to  the  charge  our  heroes  go 
With  a  cheer  for  their  native  land. 

They  rout  the  foe,  the  Stars  and  Stripes 
Wave  o'er  the  burning  town, — 

The  flag  that  never  yet  has  found 
A  foe  to  haul  it  down. 

So  let  us  sing  a  song  of  praise 

For  each  and  every  one 
Of 'those  brave  boys  who  fought  so  well 

Beneath  a  tropic  sun. 


THE  MONT  AN  AS  AT  CALOOCAN 

And,  also,  let  us  shed  sad  tears 
For  those  who  nobly  fell, 

For  he  who  meets  a  soldier's  death 
Has  done  his  duty  well. 


97 


Nature's  Grand  Opera 

T  LOVE  to  hear  the  raindrops 

*     On  the  old  woods  patter  down, 

'T  is  a  softer,  sweeter  music 

Than  you  listen  to  in  town; 
With  hailstones  for  the  tenor, 

And  old  thunder  for  the  bass, 
The  raindrops  sing  soprano 

As  they  seek  to  kiss  your  face; 
While  to  and  fro  with  silent  grace, 

Chain-lightning  bravely  tries 
To  dance  the  mystic  serpentine, 

Along  the  stormy  skies. 

'T  is  an  opera  from  Nature, 
Only  sung  on  Nature's  stage, 

And  't  is  in  the  merry  spring-time 
That  it  seems  to  be  the  rage; 

The  setting  of  the  stage  is 
Well  adapted  to  the  play, 


NATURE'S  GRAND   OPERA 

With  its  clouds  of  inky  blackness 
On  a  curtain  sombre  gray; 

But  the  last  act  is  the  master  stroke, 
When,  arching  over  all, 

The  rainbow — grand,  spectacular — 
Forbids  the  rain  to  fall. 


99 


Evening  in  the  Bad  Lands 

A  SULTRY  day  draws  to  a  close, 
Among  the  Bad  Land  brakes, 
And  the  summer  sun  sinks  in  repose 
Beyond  the  prairie  lakes. 

The  landscape  spreads  before  the  eye 

A  panoramic  view, 
That  stretches  out  from  sky  to  sky, 

In  ever  changing  hue. 

The  swift  Missouri  sweeps  along 

Its  rough  and  rocky  bed, 
Singing  a  hoarse  and  sullen  song 

Above  its  silent  dead. 

Softly  the  old  trees  sigh  o'erhead, 
Woo'd  by  the  western  breeze, 

Like  love-lorn  maid  by  Cupid  led 
Among  the  birds  and  bees. 


100 


EVENING  IN   THE  BAD  LANDS  IOI 

Dame  Nature  smiles  with  lazy  mien 

As  in  the  changing  light 
She  doffs  her  bright  and  lively  green 

And  takes  the  garb  of  night. 

Each  bird  has  sung  his  evening  song, 

The  bees  have  gone  to  sleep, 
And  night  treads  silently  along 

In  shadows  thick  and  deep. 

A  grand  and  peaceful  star-lit  night, 

That  follows  after  day, 
And  comes  with  soft  and  soothing  touch, 

To  charm  our  cares  away. 

And  yet  what  countless  sins  are  wrought, 

In  one  short  summer  night 
Behind  the  mask  of  darkness  that 

Obscures  the  human  sight, 

By  men  and  women,  young  and  old, 

All  heedless  of  the  fact 
That  God  is  watching  over  all 

And  sees  each  covert  act. 


On  the  Old  Riverside 

I N  camp  on  the  banks  of  the  upper  Missouri, 

In  the  heart  of  the  Bad  Lands,  the  home  of  the 

deer, 
Where  the  landscape  is   sketched  by  the  hand   of 

Dame  Nature, 
And  naught  but  the  music  of  Nature  you  hear. 

Where  the  gray  wolf  sings  bass  to  the  coyote's  tenor, 
And  the  voices  of  hills  echo  back  the  refrain ; 

While  weird  and  sad  o'er  the  river  comes  floating 
The  hoot  of  the  owl  as  he  prophesies  rain. 

There,  where  the  cottonwood  trees  cast  their  shadows, 

Dusky  and  long  in  the  soft  eventide; 
Happy,  indeed,  were  the  days  that  we  lingered, 

Hunted,  and  camped  on  the  old  riverside. 

And  oft,  oh,  how  often!     When  Worry  and  Sorrow 
Threaten  with  talons  of  woe  open  wide, 

Have  I  longed  to  revisit  the  home  of  Dame  Nature, 
And  bask  in  her  smiles  on  the  old  riverside. 


IO2 


Yellowstone  Pete's  Only  Daughter 

WES,  this  is  the  Milk  River  Valley, 
*       And  that 's  the  old  ranch  that  you  see, 
Where  Yellowstone  Pete  lost  his  daughter, 
The  pride  of  the  7  U.  P. 

Was  she  pretty? — Well,  stranger,  your  knowledge 

Of  these  parts  is  shore  incomplete, 
When  you  ask  such  a  comical  question 

'Bout  the  daughter  of  Yellowstone  Pete. 

Why,  man!     If  the  heavens  were  bluer, 

And  pansies  were  deeper  in  hue, 
They  could  n't  "size  up"  with  her  peepers, 

Which  shone  like  the  spring  poet's  dew. 

Her  teeth  were  like  snowdrops  made  whiter, 
Her  hair  like  the  sealskin  she  wore, 

Only  softer  and  silkier  and  browner, 
And  she  was  true  blue  to  the  core. 
103 


IO4     YELLOWSTONE  PETE'S  ONLY  DAUGHTER 

Was  old  Yellowstone  Pete's  only  daughter, 
Whose  voice  was  the  envy  of  birds, 

As  she  warbled  at  night  to  the  long-horns, 
Or  when  pointing  her  father's  trail  herds. 

She  was  happy  and  good  and  as  loving 

As  an  angel  could  possibly  be, 
With  always  a  smile  and  a  greeting, 

For  tough  old  cow-punchers  like  me. 

But  what  I  was  startin'  to  narrate, 

Before  you  cut  into  the  game, 
Was  a  love  affair  she  tangled  up  in, 

And  the  tragical  end  of  the  same. 

You  see,  she  was  borned  in  this  country, 

Her  mother,  a  woman  of  gold, 
Kissed  her  baby  and  lined  out  for  Heaven, 

When  Beauty  was  seven  days  old. 

The  boys,  you  see,  nicknamed  her  "Beauty," 
And  each  one,  he  fought  for  his  turn 

At  feedin'  her  out  of  the  bottle, 

But  dress  her — we  never  could  learn. 


YELLOWSTONE  PETE'S  ONLY  DAUGHTER     1 05 

So  Pete  he  sent  off  for  a  nurse  girl 

And  a  teacher  (not  stunning  for  looks), 

To  give  her  the  care  of  a  woman, 

And  learn  her  the  knowledge  of  books. 

Thus  Beauty  grew  up  at  the  home  ranch, 
And  learned  how  to  shore  ride  and  shoot, 

Also  play  and  sing  on  the  pianer, 

And  to  tie  down  a  wild  steer  to  boot. 

And  charming — why,  partner,  the  sunbeams 
They  scrapped  for  the  sweets  of  her  face, 

And  the  alkali  dust  and  the  zephyrs 
They  jockeyed  to  get  second  place. 

So  was  it  a  wonder  young  Dawson, 

The  son  of  a  neighbor  of  Pete, 
Lost  his  heart  to  this  rose  of  the  prairie, 

And  his  love  for  her  could  n't  be  beat? 

"Buck" — that  was  the  handle  he  went  by, 
Had  pre-empted  some  learnin'  at  school, 

Was  a  handsome  and  big,  manly  feller, 
And  in  a  gun-fight  was  shore  cool. 


106      YELLOWSTONE  PETE'S  ONLY  DAUGHTER 

And  there  was  n't  no  man  round  the  country, 
Could  ride  with  him  down  the  Red  Lane, 

He  could  rope,  fork,  and  ride  with  clean  saddle 
Any  outlaw  that  ever  wore  mane. 

They  'd  been  youngsters  and  brought  up  together, 
And  Dawson  was  shorely  dead  game, 

His  father  a  wealthy  old-timer, 
All  burdened  with  early -day  fame. 

Yes,  Beauty  loved  "Buck,"  that  was  certain, 
But  a  gal's  ways  are  never  foreseen, 

And  you  can't  tell  what 's  liable  to  happen 
Between  the  betwixt  and  between. 

So  when  a  young  feller  from  college 
Comes  a-romancin'  like  out  this  way, 

Well,  things  looked  a  little  promiscous, 
And  there  was  the  devil  to  pay. 

Of  course,  he  was  welcomed  by  Beauty, 
As  the  flowers  are  welcomed  in  May; 

His  college  pin  pleased  her,  I  reckon, 
And  he  had  a  girl-catchin'  way. 


YELLOWSTONE  PETE'S  ONLY  DAUGHTER     I 

But  wait  till  I  roll  me  a  smoke,  pard, 

To  filter  my  bad  feelin's  down, 
Makes  me  wanter  shore  squander  some  powder 

When  I  ponder  on  that  sneakin'  houn'. 

Well,  we  was  all  out  on  the  round-up, 
When  this  college  masher,  you  see, 

Ran  off  with  old  Yellowstone's  daughter, 
The  pride  of  the  7  U.  P. 

Now,  old  Pete  he  shore  worshipped  his  daughter, 
Loved  her  better  than  money  or  life, 

For  she  was  the  pride  of  his  old  age — 
The  gift  of  his  beautiful  wife. 

So  he  and  young  Dawson  together, 

With  hearts  like  the  lead  in  their  guns, 

Hit  the  trail  of  this  college-bred  villain, 
And  secured  him  before  many  suns. 

The  gal  they  found  up  in  Butte  City — 
He'd  deserted  her  up  there,  you  know; 

But  Dawson  caught  him  near  the  border, 
Where  numerous  cottonwoods  grow. 


YELLOWSTONE  PETE'S  ONLY  DAUGHTER     1 09 

And  there,  in  the  depths  of  the  forest, 
With  the  beasts  and  the  birds  lookin'  on, 

They  fought  to  the  death  with  their  bowies, 
Till  the  Eastern-bred  feller  was  gone. 

And  Beauty — she  married  "Buck"  after, 

But  never  seemed  happy  or  gay, 
Like  the  Beauty  we  'd  worshipped  from  childhood, — 

She  just  drooped,  shrunk,  and  withered  away. 

Yes,  she  paled  like  the  flowers  in  summer, 
And  died  with  the  leaves  in  the  fall ; 

And  we  buried  her  close  to  her  mother, 
While  the  sunshine  went  out  of  us  all. 

Poor  old  Pete,  his  hair  white  as  the  snowdrift, 
And  eyes  that  stare  vacant  and  old, 

Sits  and  sobs  at  the  foot  of  two  gravestones, 
All  alone,  whether  hot  days  or  cold. 

All  alone?     No,  for  Buck  often  joins  him, 
Grim  and  stern,  with  his  face  like  a  stone; 

Never  smiling  nowdays  like  he  used  to, 
When  he  tries  he  winds  up  with  a  moan. 


1 1 0     YELL 0  WS TONE  PETE'S  ONL  Y  DA  UGH TER 

No,  the  sun  don't  shine  quite  as  it  used  to, 
And  the  wind  has  a  lonesomer  sound, 

As  it  sings  soft  and  mournful  in  summer, 
And  howls  when  old  winter  comes  round. 


The  Cowboy's  Song 

A  COW-MAN'S  life  is  the  ideal  life, 
I  fain  would  have  no  other, 
In  rain  or  shine  I  drink  my  wine 
To  Nature  and  her  lover. 

Out  on  the  prairie's  rolling  plain, 
No  matter  what  the  weather, 

My  horse  and  I  will  live  or  die, 
For  work  we  must  together. 

Though  far  from  doctor's  skilful  aid, 
We  quaff  the  wine  of  freedom, 

And  feel  the  wealth  of  perfect  health, 
By  trust  in  Nature's  wisdom. 

We  slumber  'neath  the  open  sky, 

And,  while  the  stars  above  us 
Shine  softly  down  from  heaven's  crown, 

We  dream  of  those  who  love  us. 
in 


THE   COWBOY'S  SONG 

So  gaily  tread  the  trail  of  life, 
Though  it  be  strewn  with  sorrow; 

Cast  care  away,  enjoy  to-day, 
And  shed  vour  tears  to-morrow. 


The  Serenade 

/~\NE  night  as  I  sought  the  silence 
^^     Of  an  ancient  village  street, 
And  the  sprites  of  night  with  pretence 
Of  communion  seemed  to  meet, 

My  thoughts  were  suddenly  arrested 
By  a  voice  both  sweet  and  clear, 

That  with  subtle  charm  was  vested, 
Dazzling  aught  that  lingered  near. 

"O  charming  girl,  with  kisses  sweet, 
I  'd  leave  this  world  your  lips  to  greet; 
While  for  the  right  to  call  you  mine, 
I'd  give  my  soul  and  not  repine!" 

Thus  the  words,  so  sweet  and  tender, 

Lingered  on  the  midnight  air, 
Floating  through  the  starlit  splendor, 

In  a  cadence  rich  and  rare. 
114 


THE   SERENADE 

And  I  wondered  what  sweet  singer, 
Neath  his  lady's  window-sill, 

Could  be  winging  such  grand  tenor 
On  the  air  so  calm  and  still. 

And  I  thought  of  that  old  adage, 
"Love  will  always  find  a  way," 

As  this  lover  sent  his  message 
Up  to  where  his  darling  lay. 

So  I  strained  my  ears  to  hearken, 
Lest  some  note  I  should  not  hear, 

For  I  felt  my  life  would  darken 
If  e'en  one  escaped  my  ear. 

And  in  fancy  I  could  witness 

This  love  scene,  like  those  of  old; 

This  maid  seemed  to  me  a  princess 
Courted  by  a  warrior  bold. 

I  knew  that  he  who  sweetly  warbled 
Such  celestial  music  could 

Be  no  other  than  some  noble, 
She  some  fairy  of  the  wood. 


U6  THE   SERENADE 

As  in  dreamy  mood  I  lingered, 

Cupid,  urchin  of  repute, 
Restlessly  his  arrows  fingered, 

Watching  for  a  chance  to  shoot. 

But,  alas!  for  soft  emotion! 

What  is  this  breaks  on  the  ear? 
Oh,  this  double-damned  awakening 

Of  my  dreams  I  cherished  dear! 

For  from  out  the  devil's  dungeon 
Seeming  comes  a  voice  of  woe, 

Saying:  "See  here,  Alec  Johnsing! 
You  just  stop  that  noise  and  go! 

"  You'se  been  brayin'  'neath  my  winder 

Like  er  melancholy  mule, 
And  I  warns  you  to  meander, 

'Fore  I  break  de  Golden  Rule. 

"I'll  come  down  and  trounce  you,  nigger! 

My  affections  you  can't  win; 
On  your  coffin  you  can  figger, 

Ef  I  cotch  you  here  agin! 


THE   SERENADE 

"An'  what's  more,  I'll — "  but  by  this  time 
Human  strength  could  stand  no  more, 

And  I  passed  in  double-quick  time 
Through  oblivion's  open  door. 

(I  simply  swooned  away.) 


My  Boyhood  Days 


out  the  fount  of  memory, 
A  voice  comes  sweet  and  low, 
Whispering  tales  of  childhood  — 
The  tales  of  long  ago. 

The  sweet  voice  deftly  changes 
The  present  for  the  past, 

And  the  charm  of  recollection 
Around  my  soul  is  cast. 

It  tells  of  days  of  sunshine, 
Of  fields  and  running  streams, 

With  now  and  then  a  spanking 
To  mar  my  youthful  dreams. 

It  brings  back  vivid  pictures  — 

Reproductions  of  the  past, 
That  entertain  my  fancy, 

In  visions  thick  and  fast. 
118 


MY  BOYHOOD  DAYS  I  19 

Down  through  the  vale  the  old  stream  flows, 

Rendering  soft  and  sad 
The  same  old  tunes  that  seemed  so  sweet 

When  I  was  but  a  lad. 

I  see  again  my  boyhood  chums, 

Likewise  the  swimming-pool 
In  which  we  used  to  congregate, 

Our  blistering  backs  to  cool. 

Again  I  stalk  with  father's  gun 

Along  the  old  "Jack's"  trail; 
Again  I  set  the  ' '  figure  4 ' ' 

To  catch  the  cotton-tail. 

I  live  and  dream  those  happy  days, 

When  pony,  rod,  and  gun 
Were  in  my  eyes  far  greater  than 

All  else  beneath  the  sun. 

Kit  Carson  and  Bill  Cody 

Were  to  me  the  only  men, 
Beside  my  father,  worthy  of 

My  boyhood  notice  then; 


I2O  MY  BOYHOOD  DAYS 

While  Presidents  and  Senators, 
With  all  their  pompous  ways, 

Were  classed  by  me  a  common  lot 
Of  citizens  those  days. 

I  gaze  with  softly  filling  eyes 

Within  the  old  schoolroom, 
Where  long  but  happy  days  were  passed, 

The  best  from  life's  fair  loom. 

I  hear  my  teacher's  well-known  voice, 

I  note  her  kindly  face, 
I  would  that  I  could  meet  her  now 

Within  that  same  old  place. 

With  her,  the  teacher,  patient,  kind, 
And  me,  the  same  small  lad, 

My  school-friends  gathered  at  their  desks, 
Some  good — some  not — some  bad. 

Oh!  would  that  I  could  live  again 

Those  days  of  early  youth, 
With  stone-bruised  feet  and  freckled  face, 

So  happy,  so  uncouth! 


MY  BOYHOOD  DAYS 

But  they  have  gone  forever — 
Yet  will  they  fondly  stay 

In  memory's  pleasant  fountain 
Forever  and  for  aye. 


121 


The  Grave 

WHERE  dines  the  worm  on  human  heart, 
And  sleeps  in  human  brain, 
Where  'mid  the  bones  of  mortal  man 
The  watercourses  drain, 
There  is  our  last  abode. 

Nor  can  we  find  a  plan,  forsooth 

Whereby  our  cherished  dead 
May  sleep  in  better  comfort 

Than  in  an  earthy  bed 

With  lizard,  snake,  and  toad. 

And  why?     All  other  customs 

Of  life  improve  with  age — 
We  drop  the  old  ones  for  the  new; 

But  never  yet  has  sage 
Improved  upon  the  grave, 


122 


THE   GRAVE  123 

The  gloomy  grave,  where  tons  of  earth 

Shut  out  the  light  of  day, 
And  where,  to  moulder  into  dust, 

Our  forms  are  hid  away — 
The  timid  and  the  brave. 

'T  is  sad!     Aye,  even  shameful! 

That  we  no  better  plan 
Can  find  for  caring  for  the  clay 

Of  God's  own  image — man. 


Philosophy 

THIS  world  is  filled  with  vain  regrets; 
Contentment  is  a  jewel 
That  will  not  shine  for  those  who  pine 

And  think  the  world  so  cruel. 
"My  burden  is  so  great  to  bear!  " 

Some  people  cry  too  often; 
While  others  thrum  the  banjo 
From  the  cradle  to  the  coffin. 

If  we  should  stop  lamenting  o'er 

The  past — a  human  habit,— 
I  venture  we  would  all  agree 

This  life  is  as  we  make  it. 
Then,  why,  when  unavoided  cares 

Besiege  our  lives  so  often, 
Do  we  not  thrum  the  banjo 

From  the  cradle  to  the  coffin? 
124 


PHILOSOPHY 

And  as  you  thread  through  life  you  11  find 

Philosophy  won't  hurt  you, 
But  if  you  try  you  '11  ne'er  deny 

That  it  becomes  a  virtue. 
So  never  cry  in  sore  distress, 

"My  lot  I  cannot  soften!  " 
But  simply  thrum  the  banjo 

From  the  cradle  to  the  coffin. 


125 


Old  Jack's  Introduction  to  Wild  Horse 

WILD  HORSE  was  surely  a  promisin'  town 
'long  'bout  '83,"  ventured  the  old  cow- 
puncher,  in  reply  to  a  remark  I  had  made  concern 
ing  the  town  we  had  just  passed  through  on  our 
way  from  the  round-up  camp  to  the  Cross  P  ranch, 
at  which  place  I  hoped  to  meet  my  friend  and  busi 
ness  associate,  Mr.  M . 

"These  here  hills  were  covered  with  cattle  them 
days;  wages  was  high,  and  cowboys  was  onto  their 
business  and  was  n't  mixed  up  with  kids  and  green 
horns,  like  these  would-be  cowpunchers  that  come  up 
over  the  trail  nowadays  with  a  bunch  of  dogie  cattle, 
and  imagine  they've  learned  all  there  is  'bout  pun- 
chin'  cows. 

"And  the  captain  of  the  round-up  them  days  had 
to  be  a  sure  enuff  cow-man  in  order  to  hold  his  job. 
He  had  to  have  plenty  of  practical  cow-sense,  or  he 
could  n't  hold  his  position  no  longer 'n  you  could  hold 

a  bull  by  the  tail." 

126 


OLD  JACK'S  INTRODUCTION   TO  WILD  HORSE    I2/ 

Then,  pulling  his  horse  down  to  a  walk,  old  Jack 
seemed  to  fall  into  a  pensive  frame  of  mind,  from 
which  I  aroused  him  by  saying,  "  But  you  were  com 
mencing  to  tell  me  something  about  Wild  Horse — " 
hoping  to  get  him  started  on  one  of  his  cowboy 
stories,  in  which  line  I  knew  him  to  be  an  adept. 
Awakened  from  his  reverie,  he  made  the  following 
response  to  my  suggestion:  "Well,  I  on'y  kind  o' 
remarked  that  this  here  camp  was  n't  always  on  the 
bum,  an'  when  I  first  saw  it  things  was  run  high  an' 
open,  an'  every  man  was  your  friend  out  an'  out,  or 
your  deadly  enemy,  one  or  t'other.  No  half-way- 
between  business  went  them  days,  you  can  gamble 
on  that. 

"When  a  man  pulled  his  gun  he  had  to  use  it  or 
take  his  medicine,  unless,  of  course,  he  got  the  dead 
drop,  in  which  case  things  could  be  sort  o'  com- 
plimised,  as  it  were. 

"Wild  Horse  at  that  time  had  the  most  genteel  and 
legitimate  graveyard  in  the  country — what  I  means 
by  legitimate  is,  that  every  gent  reposin'  in  her  had 
died  game,  with  his  boots  on  an'  his  gun  smokin'. 

"And   you    consequently    conceive    that    we    was 


128    OLD  JACK'S  INTRODUCTION   TO   WILD  HORSE 

judishesly  proud  of  our  little  health  resort.  Did  I 
help  to  build  said  cemetery?  Well,  with  ondue  re 
spect  to  the  other  survivors,  who  was  active  members 
and  observers  of  law  and  peace,  I  presume  to  mod 
estly  remark,  without  any  complication  of  conshunce, 
that  I  duly  caused  five  to  be  planted  therein,  all  done 
up  in  fair  and  considerate  gun  practice — the  result  of 
which  I  carry  a  few  suvineers,  such  as  these." 

As  he  said  this  my  companion  threw  open  his  shirt 
bosom  and  exposed  a  chest  bronzed  by  years  of  hard 
ship,  and  blemished  here  and  there  by  ugly -looking 
scars,  evidently  caused  by  knife  and  bullet  wounds. 
Then,  after  grimly  enjoying  my  astonishment,  while 
he  rolled  a  cigarette,  he  calmly  resumed  his  conversa 
tion:  "Yes,  pard,  them  was  certainly  stirrin'  times, 
an'  I  well  remember  the  first  time  I  struck  Wild 
Hoss.  I  comes  ridin'  up  to  a  hitchin'  post  in  front  of 
the  Bloody  Heart  saloon,  which  was  the  most  austen- 
tatious  and  pop'lar  business  house  in  town,  when  out 
comes  a  couple  of  tin-horn  gamblers  and  a  cow- 
puncher  called  Panhandle  Ben,  a-cussin'  of  each  other 
in  language  most  disrespectful,  an'  just  as  they  struck 
the  sidewalk,  the  tin-horns  they  pulled  their  guns 


ft 


I3O    OLD  JACK'S  INTRODUCTION   TO  WILD  HORSE 

an'  commenced  to  fog  Ben  up  a  batch.  They  was  n't 
any  quicker  than  old  Panhandle,  howsomever;  but, 
you  see,  they  had  previsly  touched  Ben  for  his  gun, 
while  he  was  under  the  influence  of  tangle-leg  sper- 
rits,  and  had  taken  out  all  the  cattriges,  so,  naturally, 
his  gun  snapped. 

"Well,  there  they  was  a-foggin'  poor  old  Ben  like 
he  was  a  beef,  an'  him  a-dodgin'  an'  a-snappin'  of 
his  old  shootin'  iron,  an'  lookin'  awful  desperate  like 
—the  bullets  makin'  themselves  shorely  numerous 
and  drillin'  of  him  like  he  was  a  swingin'  target.  Of 
course,  he  knew  he  was  up  against  the  worst  of  it, 
as  was  self-evident  from  the  oppression  of  his  coun 
tenance. 

"Well,  it  was  shorely  too  much  for  any  gent  to 
withstand — too  many  for  yours  trooly,  anyway;  so, 
without  any  ondue  recitation,  I  pulls  my  guns  an' 
cuts  down  on  them  there  tin-horns,  a-throwin'  fire 
an'  brimstone  like  a  camp-meetin'  preacher.  An' 
when  the  fireworks  was  over  an'  the  smoke  had  kind 
o'  floated  off  on  the  evenin'  zeifer,  I  sees  the  enemy 
is  completely  analyzed  an'  defeated,  bein'  as  how 
they're  layin'  on  the  sidewalk  a-swelterin'  in  their 


OLD  JACK'S  INTRODUCTION  TO    WILD  HORSE    131 

gore,  an'  so  dead  you  could  almost  smell  'em.  Old 
Panhandle,  he  was  punctured  two  or  three  times 
through  the  carcass,  but  eventooly  resusticated  suf 
ficiently  to  thank  me  generously  for  my  timely  rein 
forcements  before  he  coughed  up  his  sperrit  a  couple 
of  hours  later  on. 

"This,  pard,  was  the  way  I  made  my  eggsit  into 
Wild  Hoss  town,  an'  it  was  shorely  a  cheerful  one, 
considerin'  as  how  the  boys  all  gave  me  a  most  wel 
come  conception  in  the  Bloody  Heart  whiskey  tepee 
that  night,  an'  made  me  chairman  of  their  committee 
on  town  laws  to  promote  peace  an'  prosperity  in 
general." 


The  Half-Breed's  Tale 

"\/AS,  pardnair,  dat  am  T'ree    Butte,  dat  where 

^       Gen'l  Miles  she'll  fight    de  hinjun,   de  

Nez  Perce*,  de  same  what  steal  my  ole  'omen  and  take 
de  hair  ob  my  brudder,  five — ten — fifteen  year  ago. 
By  gar!  de  ole  'omen  she'll  be  mighty  fine  gal  den, 
and  was  cos'  me  seventeen  pony  an'  four  sack  to 
bacco;  she  half-breed  blood  hinjun,  adop'  by  de 
Assneboine  war  chief,  Medicin'  Bear. 

"Dem  day,  me  was  hun'  de  buf'lo  an'  sell  de  hide 
to  white  men  trader,  what  keep  de  store  at  Hood 
Camps,  'long  Missour'  River,  and  sometime  trade  wid 
de  hinjun,  too.  Well,  one  day,  when  de  sign  was 
good,  me  out  look  for  de  buf'lo;  been  on  trail  all 
day;  mebby  so,  twenty  mile  from  de  camp.  Sun 
she'll  be  pretty  hot,  an'  pony  she  be  gettin'  pretty 

tired,  and  me  starve  like  de  wolf  in  winter — wid  no 

132 


1 11 ' 

I   i™P 


134  THE  HALF-BREED'S    TALE 

meat,  no  tea,  no  flour  for  to  eat.  But  jus'  when  me 
t'ink  me  look  for  de  water  hole  an'  make  some  camp 
for  de  night,  me  see  'way  off  on  de  hill  one  big  dus', 
like  de  cattle  what  she'll  make  on  de  roun'-up  when 
de  cowboy  she'll  cut  out,  or  rope  de  ca'f.  Well,  by 
gar!  me  t'ink  all  de  buf'lo  on  de  pra'r'  dey'll  be  in 
one  big  bunch  when  me  see  dem  come  ober  de  hill, 
wid  plenty  hinjun  ridin'  all  'roun'  dem.  Well,  me 
get  behind  de  cut -bank  and  t'ink  me  watch  till  dey 
go  pas', 'bout  half-mile  off. 

"But  one  hinjun,  she'll  get  after  one  ol'  buf'lo 
bull  an'  run  him  an'  shoot  him  wid  de  arrow,  but  his 
pony  pretty  tired  an'  not  can  run  fas'  'nough  to 
catch  ol'  bull.  Well,  by  gar!  here  dey  came  as 
straight  to  me  as  de  goose  she'll  fly,  an'  when  de 
hinjun  get  close  by,  me  know  him  to  be  Black  Cloud, 
de  Nez  Perc6  w'at  kill  my  brudder  and  steal  my 
squaw.  What  I  do  den?  Well,  by  gar!  me  laught 
a  pretty  good  laugh  an'  watch  de  hinjun  run  de 
buf'lo  down  de  cut -bank  in  de  coolee  out  ob  sight  ob 
de  oder  hinjuns,  an'  him  all  time  shoot  de  arrow 
'way  at  ol'  bull.  Den  I  take  de  rifle  an'  ride  after 
her — she  no  see  me,  she  want  kill  ol'  buf'lo  so  bad — 


THE  HALF-BREED'S    TALE  135 

so  me  run  up  behin',  shove  de  gun  in  his  back,  an' 
tell  him  stop  his  pony.     Well,  by  gar!    she  know  me, 
an'  look  pretty  scart,  like  de  coyote  in  de  trap.     But 
I  take  his  hunting  bow  an'  long  knife  an'  make  him 
get  oft"  his  pony  an'  lay  down  on  de  groun'.     Den  I 
cut  some  string  an'  tie  him  like  de  cowboy  tie  de  big 
steer.     She  look  pretty  seek,  like  do  poison  dog,  but 
I  laugh  all  time  an'  tell  him  mighty  glad  to  see  him, 
all  same  brudder;    but   she  no  seem  glad  see  me, 
'cause  she  know  she  mus'   die.     Well,   me  take  de 
hinjun's  bow  an'  arrow   an'  go   back  an'  kill  de  ol' 
buf'lo  bull  in  de  coolee — cut  off  some  de  meat,  eat 
some  de  raw  libber  to  make  me  strong  heart,  den 
come  back,  put  hinjun  an'  meat  on  hinjun  pony  an' 
go  'way  back  in  de  hill,  where  Black  Cloud's  frien's 
no  can  come;   an'  all  time  I  talk  an'  laugh  at  Black 
Cloud  an'  call  him  squaw  fighter,  heart  like  de  li'le 
bird,  an'  all  de  oder  bad  names  dat  I  t'ink,  but  she 
no  say  one  wor',  jus'  keep  his  mout'  shut,  like  de 
pony.     Well,  me  take  him  'way  off  in  de  Bad  Lan's, 
mebby  so  free  mile;   make  li'le  fire,  cook  an'  smoke, 
an  laugh  at  Black  Cloud,  an'  tell  him  she's  pretty 
goo'  man  for  fun,  den  when  de  moon  she  '11  come  up 


136  THE  HALF-BREED'S    TALE 

ober  de  hill,  I  put  some  buf'lo  skin  in  de  hinjun's 
mout',  tie  him  to  de  groun',  an'  den  I  take  de  two 
pony  an'  start  for  de  big  hinjun  camp,  w'ere  I  know 
I  fin'  my  ol'  'omen  w'at  Black  Cloud  stole.  I  soon 
fin'  trail  w'at  plenty  pony  make  an'  w'en  de  moon 
she  '11  be  jus'  ober  de  feder  in  my  hat  I  fin'  my  squaw, 
steal  some  fresh  hinjun  pony,  an'  go  back  to  Black 
Cloud.  Course,  de  ol'  'omen  she'll  be  pretty  glad 
see  me  'cause  Black  Cloud  she'll  be  pretty  mean  to 
him  an'  hit  him  plenty  wit'  de  club,  so  his  back  all 
cut  like  in  de  sun-dance.  Black  Cloud  she'll  look 
pretty  mad  w'en  we  get  back  an'  try  to  break  de 
rope  an'  eat  de  string,  but  his  mout'  too  full  buf'lo 
robe. 

"Well,  I  tell  my  squaw  to  put  de  long  rope  on 
Black  Cloud's  feet  an'  tie  it  to  one  pretty  wild  pony. 
Den  I  take  Black  Cloud's  hair  an'  say,  '  Good-bye, 
Black  Cloud,  wit'  de  li'le  heart;  you  go  back  to  your 
people.' 

"Den  we  get  on  de  oder  ponies  an'  turn  de  wild 
pony  loose  wid  Black  Cloud,  an'  'way  she  go  like  de 
win',  ober  de  rock  an'  sage-brush,  straight  for  de  big 
camp.  Well,  me  an'  my  ol'  'omen  we'll  run  'long- 


THE   HALF-BREED'S    TALE 


137 


side  an'  whip  de  -  -  Nez  Perce  wit'  de  long  raw 
hide  till  she's  dead,  den  we  come  back  to  ol'  Fort 
Bel'nap  an'  dance  free  day  and  night  wit'  de  Assne- 
boine  hinjun." 


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